DWELLERS 
INARCADY 

The    Story   of  an 
Abandoned  Farm 

By  Albert  Bigelow  Paine 


With  Many  Drawings  by 
Thomas  Fogarty 


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IN    ARCADY 

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o 


nee  more  it  was  a 
habitation  and  a  home 


'•••^PlgpfcS*? 


DWELLERS  IN  ARCADY 

The  Story  of  an  Abandoned  Farm 


Albert  Bigelow  Paine 

Author  of  "FUOM  VAN-DWELLER  TO 

COMMUTER"  "THE  SHIP-DWELLERS" 

"THE  TENT-DWELLERS"  ETC. 


with  Illustrations  by 
Thomas    Fogarty 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


DWELLERS  IN  ARCADY 


Copyright,  1919,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March,   1919 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Once  more  it  was  a  habitation  and  a  home   .     .      Frontispiece 

"And  here  is  your  house,"  said  William  C. 

Westbury Facing  p.  6 

They  formed  a  board  of  appraisal.  All  of  them 
knew  that  cellar  and  were  intimately  ac 
quainted  with  its  contents "  44 

/  made  about  three  leaps  and  grabbed  it,  and  a 
second  later  had  it  hooked  and  was  backt 
the  lightning  at  my  heels 68 

Sometimes  at  the  end  of  the  day,  as  I  sat  by 
the  waning  embers,  and  watched  her  mov 
ing  to  and  fro  between  me  and  the  fading 
autumn  fields no 

"Good  afternoon"  I  said.  "Can  you  tell  us 

where  we  are?" "  156 

/  remember  that  as  a  golden  summer,  an  en 
thusiastic  summer,  and,  on  the  whole,  a 
successful  one 206 

It  was  on  a  winter  evening  that  I  drove  our 
car  back  to  its  old  place  in  the  barn,  after 
its  long  journeyings  by  land  and  sea  .  .  238 


3  76 


DWELLERS 
IN    ARCADY 


DWELLERS    IN    ARCADY 

The  Story  of  an  Abandoned  Farm 

CHAPTER  ONE 


All  my  life  I 


had  dreamed  of  owning  a 
brook 


UST  below  the  brow  of 
the  hill  one  of  the  traces 
broke  (it  was  in  the 
horse -and -wagon  days 
of  a  dozen  years  or  so 
ago),  and  if  our  driver 
had  not  been  a  prompt 
man  our  adventure 
might  have  come  to  grief  when  it  was 
scarcely  begun.  As  it  was,  we  climbed  on 
foot  to  the  top,  and  waited  while  he  went 
into  a  poor  old  wreck  of  a  house  to  borrow 
a  string  for  repairs. 

We  wondered  if  the  house  we  were  going 
to  see  would  be  like  this  one.     It  was  of  no 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


special  design  and  it  had  never  had  a 
period.  It  was  just  a  house,  built  out  of 
some  one's  urgent  need  and  a  lean  purse. 
In  the  fifty  years  or  so  of  its  existence  it 
had  warped  and  lurched  and  become  sway- 
backed  and  old — oh,  so  old  and  dilapidated 
• — without  becoming  in  the  least  antique,  but 
just  dismal  and  disreputable — a  veritable 
pariah  of  architecture.  We  thought  this  too 
bad,  for  the  situation,  with  its  view  down 
a  little  valley  and  in  the  distance  the  hazy 
hills,  was  the  sort  of  thing  that,  common  as 
it  is  in  Connecticut,  never  loses  its  charm. 
Never  mind,  we  said;  perhaps  "our  house" 
would  have  a  view,  too. 

But  then  our  trace  was  mended  and  we 
went  along — happily,  for  it  was  sunny 
weather  and  summer-time,  and,  though 
parents  of  a  family  of  three,  we  were  still 
young  enough  to  find  pleasure  in  novelty 
and  a  surprise  at  every  turn.  Our  driver 
was  not  a  communicative  spirit,  but  we 
drew  from  him  that  a  good  many  houses 
were  empty  in  this  part—  •"  people  dead  or 
gone  away,  and  city  folks  not  begun  to 
come  yet" — he  didn't  know  why,  for  it  was 

2 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


handy  enough  to  town — sixty  miles  by 
train  —  and  a  nice-enough  country,  and 
healthy — just  overlooked,  he  guessed. 

We  agreed  readily  with  this  view;  we 
were  passing,  just  then,  along  a  deep  gorge 
that  had  a  romantic,  even  dangerous,  as 
pect;  we  descended  to  a  pretty  valley  by  a 
road  so  crooked  that  twice  it  nearly  crossed 
itself;  we  followed  up  a  clear,  foaming 
little  river  to  a  place  where  there  was  a 
mill  and  a  waterfall,  also  an  old-fashioned 
white  house  surrounded  by  trees.  Just 
there  we  crossed  a  bridge  and  our  driver 
pulled  up. 

"The  man  you  came  to  see  lives  here/'  he 
said.  ' '  The  house  is  ahead,  up  the  next  hill. ' ' 

"The man "  must  have  seen  us  coming,  for 
the  door  opened  and  he  came  through  the  trees , 
a  youngish,  capable-looking  person  who  said 
he  was  the  same  to  whom  we  had  written —  that 
is  to  say,  Westbury — William  C.  Westbury, 
of  Brook  Ridge,  Fairfield  County. 

Had  we  suspected  then  how  large  a  part 
of  our  daily  economies  William  C.  Westbury 
was  soon  to  become  we  should  have  given 
him  a  closer  inspection.  However,  he  did 

3 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


not  devote  himself  to  us.  He  appeared  to 
be  on  terms  of  old  acquaintance  with  our 
driver,  climbed  into  the  front  seat  beside 
him,  and  lost  himself  in  news  from  the 
outlying  districts.  The  telephone  had  not 
then  reached  the  countryside,  and  our  driver 
brought  the  latest  bulletins.  The  death  of 
a  horse  in  Little  Boston,  the  burning  of  a 
barn  in  Sanfordtown,  the  elopement  of  an 
otherwise  estimable  lady  with  a  peddler, 
marked  the  beginning  of  our  intimacy  with 
the  affairs  of  Brook  Ridge. 

The  hill  was  steep,  and  in  the  open  field 
at  one  side  a  little  cascade  leaped  and  glis 
tened  as  it  went  racing  to  the  river  below. 

"That's  the  brook  that  runs  through  your 
farm,"  Mr.  Westbury  said,  quite  casually, 
in  the  midst  of  his  interchanges  with  the 
driver. 

"Our  farm!"  I  felt  a  distinct  thrill. 
And  a  brook  on  it!  All  my  life  I  had 
dreamed  of  owning  a  brook. 

"Any  trout  in  it?"  I  ventured,  trying  to 
be  calm. 

"Best  trout-brook  in  the  township.  Ain't 
it,  Ed?"— to  the  driver. 

4 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"Has  that  name,"  Ed  assented,  nodding. 
"I  never  fish,  myself,  but  I've  seen  some 
good  ones  they  said  come  out  of  it." 

We  were  up  the  hill  by  this  time,  and 


Mr.  Westbury  waved  his  hand  to  a  sloping 
meadow  at  the  left. 

"That's  one  of  the  fields.  Over  there  on 
the  right  is  some  of  your  timber,  and  up  the 
hill  yonder  is  the  rest  of  it.  Thirty-one 
acres,  more  or  less.  The  brook  runs  through 
all  of  it — crosses  the  road  yonder  where  you 
see  that  bridge." 

I  could  feel  my  pulse  getting  quicker. 
There  was  no  widely  extended  view,  but 
there  was  a  snug  coziness  about  these 
neighborly  meadows  and  wooded  slopes, 

2  5 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


with  the  brook  winding  between;  this 
friendly  road  with  its  ancient  stone  walls, 
all  but  concealed  now  by  a  mass  of  ferns 
or  brake  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  by 
a  tangle  of  tall  grass,  goldenrod,  purple- 
plumed  Joe  Pye  weed,  wild  grape  with 
big  mellowing  clusters,  wild  clematis  in 
full  bloom.  New  England  in  summer-time! 
What  other  land  is  like  it?  Our  brook, 
our  farm,  here  in  the  land  of  our  fathers! 
There  were  a  warmth,  a  glow,  a  poetry 
in  the  thought  that  cannot  be  put  down 
in  words — something  to  us  new  and  won 
derful,  yet  as  old  as  human  wandering  and 
return. 

But  then  all  at  once  we  were  pulling  up 
abreast  of  two  massive  maple-trees  and 
some  stone  steps. 

"And  here  is  your  house,"  said  William 
C.  Westbury. 

II 

Ghosts  like  good  architecture 

I  believe  I  cannot  quite  give  to-day  my 
first  impression  of  the  house.  In  the  years 

6 


*  And  here  is  your  house,"  said 
**   William  C.   Westbury 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


that  have  followed  it  has  blended  into  so 
many  other  impressions  that  I  could  never 
be  sure  I  was  getting  the  right  one.  I  had 
better  confine  myself  to  its  physical  ap 
pearance  and  what  was  perhaps  a  reflex 
impression — say,  number  two. 

One  glance  was  enough  to  show  that  it 
was  all  that  the  other  old  house  was  not. 
It  did  not  sag,  or  lurch,  or  do  any  of  those 
disreputable  things.  It  stood  up  as  straight 
and  was  as  firm  on  its  foundations  as  on 
the  day  when  its  last  hand-wrought  nail 
had  been  driven  home,  a  century  or  so  be 
fore.  No  mistaking  its  period  or  archi 
tecture — it  was  the  long-roofed  salt-box 
type,  the  first  Connecticut  habitation  that 
followed  the  pioneer  cabin;  its  vast  central 
chimney  had  held  it  unshaken  during  the 
long  generations  of  sun  and  storm. 

Not  that  it  was  intact — oh,  by  no  means. 
Its  wide  weather-boards  were  broken  and 
falling;  the  red  paint  they  had  once  known 
had  become  a  mere  memory,  its  shingles 
were  moss-grown  and  curling,  the  grass  was 
uncut.  The  weeds  about  the  entrances  and 
rotting  well-curb  grew  tall  and  dank;  the 

7 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


appearance  of  things  in  general  was  far 
from  gay.  Clouds  had  overcast  the  sky, 
and  on  that  dull  afternoon  a  sort  of  still 
deadliness  hung  about  the  premises.  No 
cheap,  common  house  can  be  a  haunted 
house.  Ghosts  like  good  architecture,  es 
pecially  when  it  has  become  pretty  antique, 
and  they  have  a  passion  for  neglected  door- 
yards.  The  place  lacked  nothing  that  I 
could  see  to  make  it  attractive  to  even  the 
most  fastidious  wandering  wraith.  As  I 
say,  I  think  this  was  not  my  first  impression, 
but  certainly  it  was  about  the  next  one, 
and  I  could  see  by  her  face  that  it  was 
Elizabeth's. 

"Place  wants  trimming  up,'*  said  Mr. 
Westbury,  producing  a  big  brass  key,  "and 
the  house  needs  some  work  on  it,  but  the 
frame  is  as  sound  as  ever  it  was.  Been 
standing  there  going  on  two  hundred  years 
—hewn  oak  and  hard  as  iron.  We'll  go 
inside." 

We  climbed  down  rather  silently.  I  felt 
a  tendency  to  step  softly,  for  fear  of  waking 
something.  The  big  key  fitted  the  back 
door,  and  we  followed  Mr.  Westbury. 

8 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


He  told  us,  as  we  entered,  that  the  place 
belonged  to  his  wife  and  her  sister — that 
they  had  been  born  there;  also,  their  father, 
their  grandmother,  and  their  great-grand 
father,  which  was  as  far  back  as  they  knew, 
though  the  house  had  always  been  in  the 
family.  Through  a  little  hallway  we  en 
tered  a  square  room  of  considerable  size.  It 
had  doors  opening  into  two  smaller  rooms, 
and  to  one  much  larger — long  and  low,  so 
low  that,  being  a  tall  person,  my  hair 
brushed  the  plaster.  Just  in  the  corner 
where  we  entered  there  was  an  astonishingly 
big  fireplace  to  which  Mr.  Westbury  waved 
a  sort  of  salute. 

"There  is  a  real  antique  for  you,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  question  as  to  that.  The 
opening,  which  included  a  Dutch  oven,  was 
fully  seven  feet  wide,  and  the  chimney- 
breast  no  less  than  ten.  The  long,  narrow 
mantel-shelf  was  scarcely  a  foot  below  the 
ceiling.  It  took  our  breath  a  little — it  was 
so  much  better  than  anything  we  had  hoped 
for.  We  forgot  that  this  was  a  haunted 
house.  It  had  become  all  at  once  a  sort  of  a 
dream  house  in  which  mentally  we  began 

9 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


placing  all  the  ancient  furnishings  we 
had  been  gathering  since  our  far-off  van- 
dwelling  days.  There  was  a  big  hole  in  the 
plaster,  but  it  was  a  small  matter.  We 
hardly  saw  it.  What  we  saw  was  the  long, 
low  room,  with  its  wide  wainscoting  and 
quaint  double  windows,  and  ranged  about 
its  walls — restored  and  tinted  down  to 
match — our  low  bookshelves;  on  the  old 
oak  floor  were  our  mellow  rugs,  and  here  and 
there  tables  and  desk  and  couches,  with 
deep  easy-chairs  gathered  about  a  wide  open 
fire  of  logs.  Oh,  there  is  nothing  more 
precious  in  this  world  than  the  dream  of 
a  possibility  like  that,  when  one  is  still 
young  enough  and  strong  enough  to  make 
it  come  true! 

"This  was  the  kitchen  in  the  old  days,'* 
Mr.  Westbury  said.  "They  cooked  over 
the  fire  and  baked  in  that  oven.  Old  Uncle 
Phineas  Todd,  over  at  Lonetown,  who  is 
ninety  years  old,  and  remembers  when  his 
mother  cooked  that  way,  says  that  noth 
ing  has  ever  tasted  so  good  since  as  the 
meat  and  bread  that  came  out  of  those 
ovens.  The  meat  was  rich  with  juice  and 

10 


Dwellers  in  .Arcady 


the  bread  had  a  crust  on  it  an  inch  thick. 
That  would  be  seventy-five  years  .ago,  and 
it's  about  that  long,  I  guess,  since  this  one 
was  used."  Mr.  Westbury  opened  a  door 
to  another  square  room  of  considerable 
size.  "This  was  their  best  room,"  he  said. 
"They  opened  the  front  door  only  for 
funerals  and  weddings.  I  was  married  over 
there  in  that  corner  twelve  years  ago. 
That  was  the  last  wedding.  My  wife's 
father  lived  here  till  last  year.  That  was 
the  last  funeral.  He  was  eighty-five  when 
he  died.  People  get  to  be  old  folks  up  here. ' ' 

There  was  a  smaller  fireplace  in  this  room, 
and  another  in  a  little  room  behind  the 
chimney,  and  still  another  in  the  first  we 
had  entered — four  in  all — one  on  each  side 
of  the  great  stone  chimney-base.  For  the 
most  part  the  walls  seemed  in  good  condi 
tion — the  plaster  having  been  made  from 
oyster  shells,  Westbury  said,  hauled  fifteen 
miles  from  Long  Island  Sound. 

We  returned  to  the  long,  low  room  and 
climbed  the  stair  to  a  sort  of  half -room — • 
unfinished,  the  roof  sloping  to  the  eaves. 
Westbury  called  it  the  kitchen-chamber, 

ii 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  it  led  to  bedrooms — a  large  one  and 
three  small  ones.  Also,  to  a  tiny  one  which  in 
our  dream  we  promptly  converted  into  a  bath 
room.  Then  we  climbed  still  another  stair — 
a  tortuous,  stumbling  ascent — to  the  attic. 

We  had  expected  it  to  be  an  empty  place, 
of  dust,  cobwebs,  and  darkness.  It  was 
dusty  enough  and  none  too  light,  but  it  was 
far  from  empty.  Four  spinning-wheels  of 
varying  sizes  were  in  plain  view  between 
us  and  the  front  window.  A  dozen  or  more 
of  black,  straight-backed  chairs  of  the  best 
and  oldest  pattern  were  mingled  with  a 
mass  of  other  ancient  relics — bandboxes, 
bird-cages,  queer-shaped  pots  and  utensils, 
trenchers,  heaps  of  old  periodicals,  boxes  of 
trinkets,  wooden  chests  of  mystery — a  New 
England  garret  collection  such  as  we  had 
read  of,  but  never  seen,  the  accumulation 
of  a  century  and  a  half  of  time  and  change. 
We  looked  at  it  greedily,  for  we  had  long 
ago  acquired  a  hunger  for  such  drift  as  that, 
left  by  the  human  tide.  I  said  in  a  dead, 
hopeless  tone: 

"I  suppose  it  will  all  be  taken  away  when 
the  place  is  sold." 

12 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


William  C.  Westbury  sighed.  "Oh  yes, 
we'll  clear  out  whatever  you  don't  care 
for,"  he  said,  gloomily,  "but  it  all  goes  with 
the  house,  if  anybody  wants  it." 

I  gasped.  '  *  The — the  spinning-wheels  and 
the — the  chairs?" 

"Everything — just  as  it  is.  We've  got 
an  attic  full  of  such  truck  down  the  hill  now 
—from  my  family.  I've  hauled  around 
about  all  that  old  stuff  I  ever  want  to." 

Our  dream  began  to  acquire  extensive 
additions.  We  saw  ourselves  on  rainy  days 
pulling  over  that  treasure-house,  making 
priceless  discoveries.  Reluctantly  we  de 
scended  to  the  door-yard,  taking  another 
glance  at  the  rooms  as  we  went  down.  We 
whispered  to  each  other  that  the  place  cer 
tainly  had  great  possibilities,  but  it  was 
mainly  the  attic  we  were  thinking  of. 

We  went  outside.  Somehow  the  door- 
yard  seemed  a  good  deal  brighter,  and  we 
agreed  that  an  hour  or  two's  brisk  exercise 
with  a  scythe  would  work  wonders.  We 
walked  down  to  the  brook,  and  Mr.  West- 
bury  pulled  back  the  willows  from  the  swift 
water,  and  something  darted  away — trout, 

13 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


he  said,  and  if  he  had  declared  them  to 
weigh  a  pound  apiece  we  should  have  ac 
cepted  his  appraisal,  for  we  were  still  under 
the  spell  of  that  magic  collection  up  there 
under  the  roof  and  his  statement  that 
everything  went  with  the  house. 

The  price  for  the  thirty-one  acres — "more 
or  less,"  as  the  New  England  deeds  phrase 
it,  for  there  are  no  exact  boundaries  or 
measurements  among  those  hoary  hills — 
with  the  house,  which  for  the  moment 
seemed  to  us  mainly  composed  of  attic  and 
contents,  though  we  still  remembered  the 
long,  low  room  and  spacious  fireplaces; 
a  barn — I  was  near  forgetting  the  barn, 
though  it  was  larger  than  the  house,  and  as 
old  and  solid;  the  trout-brook;  the  woods; 
the  meadow;  the  orchard — all  complete  was 
(ah,  me!  I  fear  those  days  are  gone!)  a 
thousand  dollars,  and  I  cannot  to  this  day 
understand  how  we  ever  got  away  without 
closing  the  trade.  I  suppose  we  wanted  to 
talk  about  it  awhile,  and  bargain,  for  the 
years  had  brought  us  more  prudence  than 
money.  In  the  end  we  agreed  on -nine  hun 
dred,  and  went  up  one  day  to  "pass  papers" 

14 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


— which  we  did  after  taking  another  look 
at  the  attic,  to  make  certain  that  it  was 
not  just  a  dream,  after  all.  I  remember  the 
transaction  quite  clearly,  for  it  rained  that 
day,  world  without  end,  and  Elizabeth  and 
I,  caught  in  a  sudden  shower,  made  for  a 
great  tree  and  had  shelter  under  it  while 
the  elements  raged  about  us.  How  young 
we  must  have  been  to  make  it  all  seem 
so  novel  and  delightful!  I  recall  that  we 
discussed  our  attic  and  what  we  would 
do  with  the  fireplace  room,  as  we  stood 
there  getting  wet  to  the  skin.  We  had 
found  accommodations  at  a  neighbor's, 
and  we  decided  to  remain  a  few  days  and 
make  some  plans.  We  were  so  engrossed 
that  we  hardly  knew  when  the  rain  was 
over. 

It  was  about  sunset  when  I  walked  up 
alone  for  a  casual  look  at  our  new  posses 
sion.  It  was  still  and  deserted  up  there, 
and  as  the  light  faded  into  dusk,  the  ancient 
overgrown  place  certainly  had  an  air  about 
it  that  was  not  quite  canny.  I  decided 
that  I  would  not  remain  any  longer,  and 
was  about  to  go  when  I  noticed  an  old, 

15 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


white-haired  man  standing  a  few  feet  away. 
I  had  heard  no  step,  and  his  pale,  grave  face 
was  not  especially  reassuring.  I  began  to 
feel  goose-flesh. 

"G-good  evening,"  I  said. 

He  nodded  and  advanced  a  step.  I  no 
ticed  that  he  limped,  and  I  had  been  told 

16 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


that  my  predecessor  who  had  passed  away 
the  year  before  at  eighty-five  had  walked 
in  that  way. 

"Don't  pay  too  much  for  this  place, "  he 
said,  in  a  hollow,  solemn  voice.  "Don't 
pay  too  much.  It  was  'prised  in  the  settle 
ment  at  nine  hundred,  and  it  tain't  wuth 
any  more." 

"I — I've  already  bought  it,"  I  said, 
weakly. 

"Yeh  didn't  pay  more 'n  nine  hundred, 
did  yeh?"  he  questioned,  anxiously. 

"No,  I  didn't  pay  more  than  that." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said,  "for  it  wasn't 
'prised  any  more.  I  like  to  see  things 
in  this  world  done  fair.  When  yeh  git 
moved  I'll  come  to  see  yeh  again.  Good 
night." 

He  limped  through  the  long  grass  and 
disappeared  over  the  hill.  On  the  way 
down  I  stopped  at  the  Westbury  home 
and  reported  my  visitor.  Mrs.  Westbury, 
a  handsome,  spirited  woman,  laughed. 

"That  was  old  Nat,  who  lives  just  back 
of  you.  He's  a  good  old  body,  but 
queer." 

17 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"I'm  glad  he's  a  body,"  I  said.  "I 
wasn't  sure." 

in 

Our  debt  to  William  C.  Westbury 

Before  going  deeper  into  this  history 
I  think  I  ought  definitely  to  introduce 
William  C.  Westbury,  who  sold  us  the  place. 
How  few  and  lagging  would  have  been  our 
accomplishments  without  Westbury;  how 
trifling  seems  our  repayment  as  I  review 
the  years.  Not  only  did  he  sell  us  the 
house,  but  he  made  its  habitation  possi 
ble;  you  will  understand  this  as  the  pages 
pass. 

Westbury  was  a  native  of  natives.  By  a 
collateral  branch  he,  like  his  wife,  had 
descended  from  our  original  owners,  the 
ancient  and  honorable  Meeker  stock,  who 
had  acquired  from  the  Crown  a  grant  of  one 
of  the  long  lots  (so  called  because,  although 
of  limited  width,  they  had  each  a  shore  front 
on  Long  Island  Sound)  a  fifteen-mile  stretch 
of  wood  and  hill  and  running  water.  His 
own  homestead  at  the  foot  of  the  hill — the 

18 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


old-fashioned  white  house  already  men 
tioned — had  been  built  a  generation  or  two 
after  ours,  when  with  prosperity,  or  at  least 
the  means  of  easier  accomplishment,  the 
younger  stock  had  gone  in  for  a  more  pre 
tentious  setting. 

Whatever  there  was  to  know  about  Brook 
Ridge,  Westbury  knew — an  all- wide  Provi 
dence  could  scarcely  know  more.  He  knew 
every  family,  its  history  and  inter-relation 
ships.  His  favorite  diversion  was  to  take 
up  and  pursue  some  genealogical  thread,  to 
follow  its  mazy  meanderings  down  the 
generations,  dropping  in  curious  bits  of 
unwritten  history — some  of  it  spicy  enough, 
some  of  it  boisterously  funny,  some  of  it 
somber  and  gruesome,  but  all  of  it  alive 
with  the  very  color  and  savor  of  the  land, 
that  was  a  part  of  himself,  his  inheritance 
from  the  generations  of  sturdy  pioneers. 
Possibly  Westbury 's  history  was  not  always 
authentic,  but  if  at  times  he  drew  on  his 
imagination  he  tapped  a  noble  source,  for 
his  narrative  flowed  clear,  limpid,  refresh 
ing,  and  inexhaustible.  When  the  days  grew 
cooler  and  a  fire  was  going  in  the  big  chimney, 
3  19 


levellers  in  A  ready 


.lull  his  wagon  full,  his  pockets  lull,  with 
out  ever  an  oversight  or  a  poor  selection. 
If  you  have  ever  lived  in  I  he  eonntry  you 
know  what  a  thing  like  that  is  worth.  It 
was  my  opinion  that  West  bury  was  a 
genius,  and  he  has  since  proved  it. 

Hut  I  am  still  going  too  fast.  The 
lantiU  did  not  imuu-d  lately  come  to  Brook 
Uidrr,  .iud  ju-rhaps  I  should  say  here  that 
the  "family,"  besides  Elizabeth,  consisted 
of  three  hardy  dam;hlers,  whom  I  shall 
name  as  the  Pride,  the  Hope,  and  the  Joy, 
aged  twelve,  seven,  and  two,  respectively. 
Tlu-\  svere  boarding  at  a  pleasant  farm 
MMIU-  t  \\nii  \  MiiU-s  away,  and  it  was  thought 
advisable  for  them  to  remain  there  with 
Kli/aU'th  a  week  or  such  a  matter  while  I 
i-amr  o\vr  and  stopped  with  Westbury  and 
his  capable  wife,  to  get  things  started. 

w 
Those  were  lovely  days 

My  impression  is  that  our  carpenter  came 
first,  though  the  exact  sequence  is  un- 

23 


s  in  /Irrady 

..'.      1 :  iu<JveJy  a  car 

penter,  bein#  al&o  a  farrnrrr  during  a  con- 
•iderable  portjV/n  of  the  year,  H<:  y/'/uld 
have  to  knock  off,  now  and  then,  be  ffasd, 
to  l<v;k  after  hia  corn  and  [x/t  ... 

Wf  flgjjffant,  it  appeared,  fared  in  the 
doubl'-,  sf  h^:l[xrr  and  hired  rru'in, 

liut  they  were  a  §ui table  tx-Am  for  the 
work  in  h/'tnd~rec0flrtnir:tion  on  an  olrl 
boitie  that  h'i/I  b<:'-n  put  tip  mainly  with  an 
ax  and  a  trowel,  by  thumb  rn/^ure,  having 
probably  never  known  anything  8^>  f>ro«aic 
..rit  level  and  a  ?/juare.  We  ?x:^an 
on  the  larpje  r<v/rn  that  i.H  t/>  Bay,  the  old 
kiU;hen,  which  wa«  to  be  the  new  living 
room  and  in  a  very  little  while  had  the 
prehistoric  pantry  and  sink  ripped  out  and 
t.h'-  bi^  hole  fjat/h<-/l  in  the  plaster,  for 
our  bov.  ^arp^nter  was  a  gifU^l  man,  quali- 
fie/1  for  general  repair*. 

No,  on  fecond  th^/u^ht,  we  did  not  rip 
out  quite  all  the  old  pantry,  There  were 
some  whitcwood  -.helv -/.  that  harl  f>een  f/ut 
there  to  stay,  and  in  the  century  or  y>  of 
Uj<-ir  ^x^rupancy  af/|X:ar^/l  t/>  have  ;^ 
t/j  the  f/ther  w^xxlw^/rk,  O/m>iderin#  them 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


a  little,  and  the  fact  that  it  would  require 
an  ax  and  perhaps  dynamite  to  dislodge 
them,  I  had  an  inspiration.  Modified  a 
little,  they  would  make  excellent  bric-a- 
brac  and  book  shelves  and  serve  a  new  and 
beautiful  use  through  all  the  centuries  we 
expected  to  live  there.  I  feverishly  began 
drawing  designs,  and  the  chief  carpenter 
and  I  undertook  this  fine-art  and  literary 
corner  at  once,  so  that  it  might  be  finished 
and  a  surprise  for  Elizabeth  and  the  others 
when  they  came.  It  was  well  that  we  did 
so,  for  it  was  no  light  matter  to  reduce  the 
width  of  those  shelves.  Whitewood  is  not 
hard  when  fresh,  but  this  had  seasoned  with 
the  generations  until  it  was  as  easy  to  saw 
as  dried  horn — just  about- — and  we  took 
turns  at  it,  and  the  sweat  got  in  my  eyes, 
and  I  would  have  sent  for  the  ax  and  the 
dynamite  if  I  hadn't  passed  my  word. 

Meantime,  the  helper,  whose  name  was 
Henry  Jones,  was  hewing  an  oaken  cross 
beam  which  supported  the  ceiling,  and 
which  I  could  not  pass  under  without 
violently  knocking  my  head.  I  am  satis 
fied  that  the  original  builders  of  that  house 

24 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


were  short  people,  or  they  would  have 
planned  the  old  kitchen  a  few  inches  higher. 
But  then  I  am  always  knocking  my  head 
nearly  off  against  something.  I  have  left 
gleanings  from  it  on  the  sharp  edges  of  a 
thousand  swinging  signs  and  on  the  cruel 
filigree  of  as  many  low-hung  chandeliers. 
My  slightly  bald  spot,  due  to  severe  mental 
effort,  or  something,  if  examined  closely 
would  be  found  to  resemble  an  old  battle 
field  in  France.  But  this  is  digression. 
As  I  was  saying,  Henry  Jones  was  hewing 
at  the  big  old  cross-beam,  trying  to  raise 
its  lower  sky-line  a  couple  of  inches  with  a 
foot-adz.  I  had  not  supposed  that  the  job 
would  be  especially  difficult.  I  did  not 
realize  that  the  old  white-oak  beam  in  a 
century  and  a  half  had  petrified.  We  were 
having  a  pretty  toilsome  time  with  our 
shelves,  but  I  never  saw  a  man  sweat  and 
carry  on  like  Henry  Jones.  He  had  to 
work  straight  up,  with  his  head  tipped  back, 
and  his  neck  was  rather  short,  with  no 
proper  hinge  in  it.  Besides,  it  was  August, 
and  pretty  still  and  intense,  and  then  some 
bees  that  had  taken  up  residence  between 

25 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  floors  did  not  like  the  noise  he  made,  and 
occasionally  came  down  to  see  about  it. 
At  such  times  he  made  what  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  spring  for  the  door,  explaining 
later  that  he  had  been  to  sharpen  his  adz. 
During  quieter  moments  I  went  over,  at 
his  suggestion,  to  measure  up  and  see  if  the 
beam  wasn't  high  enough.  It  was  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day  that  I  told  him, 
that  if  he  would  now  trim  up  and  round  off 
the  corners  a  little  I  thought  I  might  be 
able  to  pass  under  it  without  butting  my 
remaining  brains  but.  You  never  saw  a 
man  so  relieved.  I  think  he  considered  me 
over-particular  about  a  small  matter.  As 
a  reward  I  set  him  to  elevating  the  beam 
across  the  top  of  the  door  leading  to  the 
kitchen — quite  an  easy  job.  He  only  had 
to  put  in  a  few  hours  of  patient  overhead 
sawing  and  split  out  the  chunks  with  wedges 
and  a  maul. 

Observing  Henry  Jones  thoughtfully,  I 
became  convinced  that  the  oaken  frame  of 
our  house  was  nearly  indestructible.  When 
I  found  time  I  examined  its  timbers  rather 
carefully.  They  were  massive  as  to  size, 

26 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


hand  hewn,  and  held  together  with  big 
wooden  pins.  No  worm  had  been  indis 
creet  enough  to  tackle  those  timbers.  The 
entire  structure  was  anchored  in  the  ma 
sonry  of  the  huge  chimney,  and  as  a  whole 
was  about  as  solid  as  the  foundations  of  the 
world.  There  were  builders  in  those  days. 

I  have  mentioned  the  "ancient  mariner" 
who  appeared  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  to 
warn  me  against  over-payment  for  the  place 
—old  Nat.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  a 
farmer,  but  with  artistic  leanings  in  the 
direction  of  whitewash.  He  appeared  one 
morning  in  a  more  substantial  form,  and 
was  presently  making  alabaster  of  our 
up-stairs  ceilings,  for  if  ever  there  was  an 
old  master  in  whitewash  it  was  Nat.  Never 
a  streak  or  a  patchy  place,  and  he  knew 
the  secret  of  somehow  making  the  second 
coat  gleam  like  frosting  on  a  wedding-cake. 

Things  were  happening  all  about.  Old 
Pop,  the  brush-cutter,  had  arrived,  with  his 
deadly  one-handed  ax,  and  was  busy  in 
the  lower  brook  lot — a  desperate  place  of 
briers  and  brush  and  poison  ivy.  He  was 
a  savage  worker.  The  thorns  stung  him 

27 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


to  a  pitch  of  fighting  madness,  and  he  went 
after  them,  careless  of  mishap.  Each  eve 
ning  he  came  up  out  of  that  vicious  swamp, 
bleeding  at  every  pore,  his  massive  shoul 
ders  hunched  forward,  his  super-normal 

arms  hanging  un 
til  his  huge  hands 
nearly  swept  the 
ground. 

Pop  in  action 
was  a  fascinating 
sight.  Few  things 
could  befiner  than 
||?'  to  see  him  snatch 
away  a  barbed- 
wire  entangle 
ment  of  black 
berry-bushes, 
clutch  a  three- 
inch  thorn  sapling 
with  his  hairy 
left,  and  with  one 
swing  of  his  terrible  right  cut  the  tap 
root  through.  I  had  figured  that  it  would 
take  a  month  to  clear  away  that  mess  along 
the  brook,  but  on  the  evening  of  the  fifth 

28 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


day  Pop  had  the  last  bit  of  its  tangle  cut 
and  piled.  Of  such  stuff  were  warriors  of 
the  olden  time.  Given  armor  and  a  battle- 
ax,  and  nothing  could  have  stood  before 
him.  One  could  imagine  him  at  Crecy,  at 
Agincourt,  at  Patay.  Joan  of  Arc  would 
have  kept  him  at  her  side. 

Pop  had  another  name,  but  everybody 
called  him  "Old  Pop"  and  he  seemed  to 
prefer  it.  He  was  seventy  years  old  and 
a  pensioner.  There  was  a  week  when  his 
check  came  that  he  did  no  work,  but  re 
mained  dressed  up,  and  I  fear  did  not 
always  get  the  worth  of  his  money.  Never 
mind,  he  had  earned  relaxation.  An  an 
cient  hickory-tree  in  the  brook  meadow 
had  been  broken  by  a  March  storm.  Old 
Pop  and  his  son  Sam  had  it  cut,  split, 
and  sawed  into  fireplace  lengths  in  a  little 
while.  That  is,  comparatively.  I  think 
they  were  two  or  three  days  at  it,  while 
it  had  taken  nature  a  full  hundred  and 
sixty  years  to  get  the  old  tree  ready  for 
them.  I  counted  the  rings.  The  figures 
impressed  me. 

It  was — let  us  say — as  old  as  the  old 
29 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


house.  It  had  been  a  straight  young 
tree  of  thirty  years  or  so  when  the  Revolu 
tionary  began,  and  it  saw  the  recruits  of 
Brook  Ridge  march  by  to  join  Putnam, 
who  had  a  camp  on  a  neighboring  hill. 
There  were  Reeds  and  Meekers  and  Burrs 
and  Todds  and  Sanfords  in  that  little  de 
tachment,  and  their  uniforms  were  not  very 
uniform,  and  their  knapsacks  none  too  well 
filled.  There  was  no  rich  government  be 
hind  them  to  vote  billions  for  defense,  no 
camps  that  were  cities  sprung  up  in  a  night, 
no  swift  trains  to  whirl  them  to  their  desti 
nation.  Where  they  went  they  walked, 
through  dust  or  mud  and  over  the  stony 
hills.  The  old  tree  saw  them  pass — in  its 
youth  and  theirs — and  by  and  by  saw  them 
return — fewer  in  numbers,  and  foot-sore, 
but  triumphant.  I  mentioned  it  to  Pop. 
He  said: 

"Yeah— I  was  in  the  Civil  War.  It 
wa'n't  much  fun,  but  I'm  lookin'  for  my 
pension  to  be  increased  next  year." 

When  there  was  no  more  brush  or  chop 
ping  I  set  Pop  to  laying  stone  wall  and  said 
I  would  employ  him  steadily  for  a  year. 

30 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


But  that  was  a  mistake.  Old  Pop  was 
a  free  lance,  a  knight  errant.  Anything 
that  savored  of  permanency  smelled  to  him 
of  vassalage.  He  laid  a  rod  of  stone  wall 
—solid  wall  that  will  be  there  for  Gabriel 
to  stand  on  when  he  plays  his  last  trump — 
blows  it,  I  mean — in  that  neighborhood. 
But  then  he  collected,  one  evening,  and 
vanished,  and  I  did  not  see  him  any  more. 
I  never  carried  the  wall  any  farther.  As  Pop 
left  it,  so  it  remains  to  this  day. 

My  plowman  was  a  young  man 
— a  handsome,  high-born-looking 
youth  who  came  one  Sunday  eve 
ning  to  arrange  terms.  He  was 
stylishly  dressed,  and  I  took  him 
for  a  college  lad  on  vacation.  He 
assured  me,  however,  that  his 
schooling  had  been  acquired  in  the 
neighborhood,  that  he  was  a  farmer 
on  his  own  account,  with  a  team  of 
his  own,  and  that  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  plowing  rocky  land.  His 
name  was  Luther  Merrill,  and  if  I  had 
thought  him  handsome  in  his  fine  clothes,  I 
considered  him  really  superb  when  he  arrived 

31 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


couraged  them  as  much  as  possible  with 
an  earnest  fanning  or  beating  motion  and 
sharp  words.  I  was  not  entirely  successful. 
I  felt  something  hot  and  sudden  on  the  lobe 
of  one  ear  just  as  I  dove  beneath  the  bushes 
that  draped  the  upper  wall,  and  I  had  an 
almost  immediate  sensation  of  its  becoming 
hard  and  pear-shaped. 

I  peered  out  presently  to  see  what  had 
become  of  Luther  Merrill.  He  had  not 
basely  deserted  his  team — he  was  too  high- 
class  for  that,  but  he  was  moving  from  the 
point  of  attack  with  as  little  delay  as  pos 
sible,  grasping  the  lines  with  one  hand  and 
pawing  the  air  with  the  other.  By  the  time 
I  reached  him  he  was  plowing  in  a  rather  re 
mote  corner,  and  he  had  lost  some  of  his 
beauty — one  eye  was  quite  closed.  He  said 
he  would  plow  down  there  by  the  house 
late  in  the  evening,  or  on  the  next  wet  day. 

Luther  plowed  and  harrowed  and  sowed 
for  us — two  fields  of  rye  and  timothy  mixed, 
to  insure  a  future  meadow,  this  on  West- 
bury's  advice.  A  part  of  one  field  had 
great  boulders  in  it,  which  he  suggested  we 
take  out.  I  said  we  would  drop  the  boulders 

34 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


into  the  brook  at  intervals  to  make  the 
pretty  falls  it  now  lacked.  Next  morning, 
Luther  Merrill  came  with  a  heavy  chain 
and  a  stone-boat  (an  immense  sled  without 
runners)  and  for  two  happy  days  we  re 
constructed  the  world,  dislocating  and  haul 
ing  boulders  that  had  not  stirred  since  the 
ice  age. 

Luther  was  an  expert  at  chaining  out 
boulders,  and  he  loved  the  job.  When  we 
got  one  to  the  brook,  and  after  great  prying 
and  grunting  finally  boosted  it  in  with  a 
mighty  splash,  Luther  would  wave  his  arms, 
jump  about,  and  laugh  like  the  high-hearted 
boy  that  he  was.  Those  were  lovely  days0 


CHAPTER  TWO 


We  carried  down  a  little  hair  trunk 

WAS  in  the  midst  of  the  im 
provements  mentioned  when 
the  family  —  that  is  to  say, 
Elizabeth  and  the  girls — ar 
rived  on  the  scene.  It  was  a 
fine  August  day — the  2ist,  to 
be  quite  exact — and  I  bor 
rowed  a  horse  and  light  wagon 
from  Westbury  and  drove  the  three  miles  of 
brook  and  woods  and  meadow  to  the  station 
to  meet  them. 

There  was  just  one  business  house  at  the 
station — a  general  store — and  I  suddenly 
found  myself  deeply  interested  in  things  I 
had  barely  noticed  heretofore.  Why,  there 
was  a  broom!  Sure  enough,  we  would  need 
a  broom;  also,  a  rake — that  was  highly 
necessary;  and  a  hatchet,  and  some  nails, 

36 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  a  shovel,  and  a  water-pail,  and  a  big 
galvanized  tub,  and — by  the  time  the  train 
came  it  took  careful  arrangement  to  fit  in  the 
family  and  the  baggage  among  my  pur 
chases.  The  Pride  had  to  sit  on  the  water- 


pail,  the  Joy,  aged  two,  in  the  galvanized 
tub,  while  the  Hope,  who  was  seven,  sat  on 
a  trunk  at  the  back,  dangled  her  legs, 
waved  her  arms,  and  whooped  her  delight 
as  we  joggled  along,  for  the  Hope  was  a  care 
free,  unrestrained  soul,  and  the  world  to  her 
just  a  perpetual  song  and  dance. 

They  were  in  a  mood  to  take  things  as 
they  found  them;  even  the  Pride,  who  at 
twelve  was  critical,  expressed  herself  as 
satisfied  with  the  house,  and,  with  the 
Hope,  presently  made  a  dash  for  the  attic, 
our  story  of  which  had  stirred  them  deeply. 
It  was  necessary  to  restrain  them  some- 

37 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


what.  In  the  first  place,  our  attic  was  not 
a  possession  to  be  pawed  over  by  careless 
and  undiscerning  childhood.  Besides,  it 
was  hot  up  there  under  the  roof,  and  gray 
with  the  dust  of  years.  It  was  a  place  for 
a  cool,  rainy  day  and  not  for  a  mid- August 
afternoon. 

We  carried  down  a  little  hair  trunk  with 
brass  nails  in  it,  and  under  the  shade  of  one 
of  the  big  maples  the  "tribe,"  as  we  some 
times  call  them,  spread  out  the  treasures  of 
some  little  old-fashioned  girl  who  long,  long 
ago  had  put  them  away  for  the  last  time. 
There  were  doll  dresses,  made  of  the  quaint 
prints  of  another  day,  and  their  gay  posy 
patterns  had  remained  fresh,  though  the 
thread  of  the  long  childish  stitches  had 
grown  yellow  with  the  years.  They  had 
very  full  skirts,  and  waists  that  opened  in 
front,  and  there  was  an  apron  with  a  wonder 
ful  bib,  and  a  little  split  sun-bonnet,  proba 
bly  for  e very-day  wear,  also  another  bonnet 
which  must  have  been  for  occasions,  for  its 
material  was  silk  and  it  was  one  of  those 
grand,  flaring  coal-scuttle  affairs  such  as 
fashionable  dolls  wore  a  very  long  time  ago. 

38 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


The  doll  was  not  there.  Long  since  she 
had  gone  the  way  of  all  dolls ;  but  the  Pride 
and  the  Hope  decked  their  own  dolls  in  the 
little  old  wardrobe,  and  thought  it  all  de 
lightful  and  amusing,  while  we  watched 
them  with  long  thoughts,  trying  to  picture 
the  little  girl  who  had  one  day  put  her 
treasures  away  to  become  a  young  lady,  and 
in  time  a  wife,  and  a  mother,  and  a  grand 
mother,  and  was  now  resting  on  the  sunny 
slope  where  the  road  turns,  beyond  the  hill. 
Later  generations  of  little  girls  appeared  to 
have  added  nothing  to  the  hair  trunk. 
Doubtless  they  had  dolls,  with  dresses  and 
styles  of  their  own,  and  trunks  of  a  newer 
pattern,  and  had  scorned  these  as  being  a 
little  out  of  date.  Even  the  Pride  and  the 
Hope  would  not  have  permitted  their  dolls 
to  appear  in  those  gowns  in  public,  I  think 
—at  any  rate,  not  in  the  best  society— 
though  carefully  preserving  them  with  a 
view  perhaps  to  fancy-dress  occasions. 

The  Joy  was  not  deeply  impressed  with 
the  hair  trunk.  Neither  its  art  nor  its 
sentimental  value  appealed  to  her.  She 
had  passed  something  more  than  two  years 

39 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


in  our  society,  and  during  most  of  this 
period  had  imagined  herself  a  horse.  A 
fairly  level  green  place,  where  she  could  race 
up  and  down  and  whinny  and  snort  and  roll 
was  about  all  she  demanded  of  life;  though 
she  had  a  doll — a  sort  of  a  horse's  doll — 
which  at  the  end  of  a  halter  went  bounding 
after  her  during  long  afternoons  of  violence. 
For  the  Joy  we  brought  down  from,  the 
attic  a  little  two-wheeled  green  doll-buggy, 
with  a  phaeton  top  and  a  tongue,  and  this 
at  once  became  her  chief  treasure.  She 
hitched  herself  to  it,  flung  in  her  doll,  and 
went  racing  up  and  down,  checked  up  or 
running  free,  until  her  round,  fat  face 
seemed  ready  to  burst,  and  it  became 
necessary  to  explain  to  her  that  she  had 
arrived  at  wherever  she  was  going  and  must 
stand  hitched  in  the  shade  till  she  cooled 
off.  It  was  a  drowsy  occupation  that  sum 
mer  afternoon.  She  was  presently  sitting 
down — as  much  as  a  horse  can  sit  down — 
and  just  a  little  later  was  stretched  among 
the  long  grass  and  clover,  forgetful  of  check- 
rein  and  hitching-post.  Later,  when  the 
three  of  them  were  awake  at  once,  they 

40 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


possessed  themselves  of  the  big  barn  and 
explored  the  stalls  and  tumbled  about  on 
the  remnant  of  hay  that  still  remained  in 
one  of  the  mows.  Then  they  discovered 
the  brook,  where  it  flowed  clear  and  cool 
among  the  willows  at  the  foot  of  the  door- 
yard.  It  was  not  deep  ,* 
enough  to  be  dan 
gerous,  and  they 
were  presently 
wading  and 
paddling  to 
their  hearts' 
content. 

The  brook,  in  fact,  became  one  of  their 
chief  delights.  It  was  never  very  warm, 
but,  tempered  by  August  sun  and  shower, 
its  shady,  pleasant  waters  were  as  balm  to 
hot  bare  legs  and  burning  feet.  Flowers  of 
many  kinds  grew  along  its  banks,  while 
below  the  bridge  where  it  crossed  the  road 
there  was  always  a  school  of  minnows  eager 
to  be  fed,  and  now  and  then  one  saw  some 
thing  larger  dart  by — something  dark,  tor 
pedo-shaped,  swift,  touched  with  white 
along  its  propellers — a  trout.  There  is  no 

41 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


end  of  entertainment  in  such  things.    Sum 
mer-time,    the    country,    and    childhood— 
that  is  a  happy  combination,  and  a  bit  of 
running  water  adds  the  perfect  touch. 

II 

Cap'n  Ben  has  an  iron  door-sill 

We  did  not  take  full  possession  of  our 
place  immediately.  Whatever  we  had  in 
the  way  of  household  effects  was  in  a 
New  York  City  flat,  and  one  must  have  a 
few  pots  and  tin  things,  even  for  the  simple 
life.  Fortune  was  good  to  us:  the  West- 
bury  household  offered  us  shelter  until  we 
were  ready  to  make  at  least  a  primitive 
beginning,  and  one  could  not  ask  better  than 
that.  Mrs.  Westbury  was  a  famous  cook, 
and  Westbury's  religion  was  conveyed  in 
the  word  plenty.  The  hospitality  and 
bounty  of  their  table  were  things  from 
another  and  more  lavish  generation.  The 
Joy  promptly  gave  our  hosts  titles.  She 
called  them  Man  and  Lady  Westbury, 
which  somehow  seemed  exactly  to  fit  them. 

42 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Each  morning  we  went  up  to  see  what  we 
could  find  to  do,  and  we  never  failed  to  find 
plenty.  I  don't  remember  distinctly  as  to 
all  of  Elizabeth's  occupations,  but  I  know 
she  has  a  mania  for  a  broom  and  a  clothes 
line.  I  carry  across  the  years  the  impression 
of  an  almost  continuous  sweeping  sound — 
an  undertone  accompaniment  to  my  discus 
sion  with  carpenter  and  painter — and  I  see 
rows  of  little  unpacked  dresses  swinging  in 
the  sun. 

One  of  my  own  early  jobs  was  to  clean 
the  cellar.  It  was  a  sizable  undertaking, 
and  I  engaged  Old  Pop's  Sam  to  help  me. 
It  was  a  cellar  of  the  oldest  pattern,  with 
no  step,  having  an  entrance  on  a  level 
with  the  road,  the  same  being  a  "rollway" 
wide  enough  to  admit  barrels  of  cider  and 
other  produce.  I  don't  know  how  many 
had  been  rolled  into  it  during  the  century 
or  so  before  we  came,  but  after  a  casual 
look  I  decided  that  very  few  had  been 
rolled  out.  The  place  was  packed  to  the 
doors  with  barrels,  boxes,  benches,  and 
general  lumber  of  every  description. 

About  the  time  we  got  started  an  au- 

43 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


dience  assembled.  Old  Nat,  who  was  tak 
ing  a  day  off,  and  'Lias  Mullins,  who  had  a 
weakness  in  his  back  and  took  most  of  his 
days  off,  drifted  in  from  somewhere  and  sat 
on  the  wall  in  the  shade  to  give  us  counsel. 
Then  presently  W.  C.  Westbury  drove  up 
and  became  general  overseer  of  the  job. 
They  formed  a  board  of  appraisal,  with 
Westbury  as  chairman.  All  of  them  knew 
that  cellar  and  were  intimately  acquainted 
with  its  contents. 

I  had  thought  the  old  collection  of  value 
only  as  kindling,  but  as  we  brought  out 
one  selection  after  another  I  realized  my 
error. 

"That,"  said  'Lias  Mullins,  "is  Uncle 
Joe's  pork-barrel.  It's  wuth  a  dollar  fifty 
new,  an'  that  one's  better  'n  new." 

"I  used  to  help  Uncle  Joe  kill,  every 
year,"  nodded  Old  Nat,  "an'  to  put  his 
meat  away.  I  remember  that  bar'l  as  well 
as  can  be.  I'll  take  it  myself,  if  you  don't 
want  it." 

"Better  keep  your  barrel,"  Westbury 
said.  ;<  You'll  be  wanting  a  pair  of.  pigs 
next,  and  then  you'll  need  it."  He  looked 

44 


)1  formed  a  board  of  appraisal. 
All  of  them  knew  that  cellar  and 
were  intimately  acquainted  with  its 
contents 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


into  it  reflectively  and  sounded  it  with  his 
foot.  "Many  a  good  mess  of  pork  that 
old  barrel's  had  in  it,"  he  said. 

The  board's  ruling  being  unanimous,  the 
barrel  was  set  aside.  Uncle  Joe's  ham- 
barrel  came  next,  and  was  likewise  recog 
nized,  carefully  examined,  and  accepted  by 
the  board.  Then  two  cider-barrels,  which 
awoke  an  immediate  and  special  interest. 

For  cider  is  the  New  England  staple.  Its 
manufacture  and  preparation  are  matters 
not  to  be  lightly  dismissed.  Good  seasoned 
cider-barrels  have  a  value  in  no  way  related 
to  cooperage.  It  is  the  flavor,  the  bouquet, 
acquired  through  a  tide  of  seasons,  from 
apples  that  grow  sweet  and  rich  through 
summer  sun  and  shower  and  find  a  spicy 
tang  in  the  first  October  frost.  Gathered 
and  pressed  on  the  right  day;  kept  in  the 
right  temperature,  the  mellow  juice  holds 
its  sweetness  and  tone  far  into  the  winter, 
and  in  the  oaken  staves  leaves  something 
of  its  savor  to  the  contents  of  another 
year. 

"That's  the  best  cider-cellar  I  know  of," 
said  'Lias  Mullins,  "and  Uncle  Joe  allus 

45 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


had  the  best  bar'ls;  but  'they  wa'n't  used 
last  year,  an*  I'm  tumble  Jfraid  they've 
gone  musty." 

"  Shouldn't  be  surprised,"  agreed  old 
Nat,  mournfully.  "An'  it's  a  great  pity." 

"Bet  you  a  quarter  apiece  they're  as 
sweet  as  ever,"  proposed  Chairman  West- 
bury.  He  took  out  a  great  jack-knife  and 
carefuly  pried  out  the  bungs.  "Smell  'em, 
'Lias,"  he  said,  yielding  precedence  to  the 
oldest  member. 

'Lias  Mullins  carefully  steadied  himself 
with  his  cane,  bent  close  to  the  bung-hole 
of  one  of  the  barrels,  and  took  a  long  and 
apparently  agreeable  whiff.  Then  after 
due  preparation  he  bent  close  to  the  other 
bung-hole  and  took  another  and  still  longer 
whiff. 

"Seems  to  me  that  one's  just  a  leetle  bit 
musty,"  he  said. 

"Now,  Nat,  it's  your  turn,"  said  West- 
bury. 

Whereupon  old  Nat,  gravely  and  after 
due  preparation,  took  a  long  whiff  of  first 
one  barrel,  then  a  still  longer  one  of  the 

other  barrel. 

46 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"Seems  to  me  it's  t'other  one  that's  a 
leetle  trifle  musty/'  he  said. 

W.  C.  Westbury  took  two  short  business 
like  whiffs  at  each  bung. 

"Sweet  as  a  nut,  both  of  'em,"  he  an 
nounced,  definitely. 

That  settled  it;  Westbury  was  acknowl 
edged  authority.  Sam  rolled  out  two  vin 
egar-barrels,  both  pronounced  good.  Fol 
lowing  there  came  what  seemed  at  least  a 
hundred  apple-barrels,  potato-barrels,  tur 
nip-barrels,  ash-barrels,  boxes,  benches,  sec 
tions  of  shelving,  and  a  general  heap  of 
debris,  some  of  it  unrecognizable  even  by 
'Lias  Mullins,  oldest  member  of  the  board. 

"It  was  a  Meeker  habit  to  throw  nothing 
away,"  commented  Westbury,  as  he  looked 
over  the  assortment.  "No  matter  what  it 
was,  they  thought  they  might  want  it,  some 
day.  You'll  find  the  same  thing  when  you 
get  to  the  attic." 

At  this  moment  Sam  discovered  in  a  dark 
corner  a  heap  of  flat  slabs  that,  brought  to 
light,  proved  to  be  small  tombstones. 
Westbury  grinned. 

"Those    were    put    over    the    cemetery 

47 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


fence, "  he  said,  "  whenever  the  relatives 
bought  bigger  ones.  Uncle  Joe  brought  a 
lot  of  them  home  to  cool  his  milk  on." 

I  looked  at  them  doubtfully.  They  were 
nothing  but  stones,  and  they  had  served  their 
original  purpose.  Still,  it  had  been  a  rather 
particular  purpose  and  they  were  carved 
with  certain  names  and  dates.  I  was  not 
sure  that  their  owners  might  not  sometime 
— some  weird  fall  evening,  say — take  a 
notion  to  claim  them. 

They  opened  the  door  of  history  to  West- 
bury.  He  began  to  recall  connections  and 
events,  and  related  how  a  certain  Hezekiah 
Lee,  whose  name  was  on  one  of  them,  had 
decided,  some  fifty  years  before,  to  give 
up  farming  and  go  to  counterfeiting.  His 
career  from  that  moment  had  been  a  busy 
one;  he  had  been  always  traveling  one  way 
or  the  other  between  affluence  and  the 
penitentiary.  His  last  term  had  been  a  long 
one,  and  when  he  got  out,  styles  in  national 
currency  had  changed  a  good  deal  and  Uncle 
Hezekiah  couldn't  seem  to  get  the  hang  of 
the  new  designs.  So  he  took  to  preaching, 
and  held  camp-meetings.  He  lived  to  be 

48 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


eighty-seven,  and  people  had  traveled  forty 
miles  to  his  funeral. 

I  said  I  would  keep  Uncle  Hezekiah's 
headstone.  In  the  end  we  made  an  inside 
walk  of  the  collection,  for  the  old  cellar  had 
a  dirt  floor  and  was  not  always  dry,  but  we 
laid  them  face  down.  When  we  had  raked 
and  swept,  and  brushed  and  put  back  the 
articles  accepted  by  the  board,  and  all  was 
trim  and  neat,  Westbury  looked  in. 

"  Looks  nice,"  he  said,  and  added,  "  that's 
what  you've  got  now,  but  by  and  by  you'll 
have  your  mess  of  old  truck,  too,  and  the 
next  man  will  cart  a  lot  of  it  to  the  wood 
pile,  just  as  you're  carting  it  now." 

I  said  I  thought  we  would  begin  our  career 
with  a  coat  of  whitewash.  Westbury  no 
ticed  something  sticking  out  from  an  over 
head  beam,  and  drew  out  a  long-handled 
wrought-iron  toasting-fork.  Looking  and 
prying  about,  we  discovered  an  old  pair  of 
brass  snuffers,  and  a  pair  of  hand-made 
wrought-iron  shears.  The  old  things  were 
pretty  rusty,  and  I  could  see  that  Westbury 
did  not  value  them  highly,  but  I  would  not 
have  traded  them  for  the  pork-barrel  and 

5  49 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  ham-barrel  and  all  the  other  barrels  and 
benches  reserved  from  Uncle  Joe's  collec 
tion.  'Lias  Mullins,  inspecting  them,  be 
came  reflective: 

"  Them's  from  away  back  in  old  Ben 
Meeker's  time,"  he  said,  "or  mebbe  furder 
than  that.  The'  ain't  been  no  scissors  made 
by  hand  in  this  country  since  my  time,  an' 
a  good  while  before.  I  guess  old  Ben  was  a 
good  hand  to  have  things  made.  I've 
heard  my  father  tell  that  when  he  was  a  boy 
Cap'n  Ben,  as  they  called  him,  one  day 
found  his  door-sill  split,  an'  went  to  the 
blacksmith  shop  an'  had  one  made  out  of 
iron.  Father  said  it  was  a  big  curiosity, 
and  everybody  went  to  look  at  it.  That 
would  be  fully  a  hundred  years  ago,  when 
the'  wasn't  so  much  to  talk  about.  He 
said  that  the  biggest  piece  of  news  in  Brook 
Ridge  for  a  good  while  was  that  Cap'n  Ben 
had  an  iron  door-sill.  It  was  around  there 
at  the  side  door.  I've  seen  it  many  a  time, 
an'  for  all  I  know  it's  there  yet." 

We  went  around  there.  Sure  enough! 
Cap'n  Ben's  iron  door-sill  was  still  in  place. 
Brown  at  the  ends,  bright  and  thinner  where 

50 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  step  came,  it  remained  as  firmly  fixed 
as  when,  a  hundred  years  before,  it  had  sup 
plied  the  latest  bit  of  gossip  to  Brook  Ridge. 


ill 


The  thought  of  going  back  to  "six  rooms  and 
improvements'1 

Peace  of  mind  is  a  fleeting  thing.  We 
began  to  be  harassed  with  uncertainty — 
to  suffer  with  indecision.  In  buying  the  old 
house  we  had  not  at  first  considered  making 
it  a  year-round  residence,  but  merely  a 
place  to  put  some  appropriate  furnishings, 
the  things  we  cared  for  most,  so  that  we 
might  have  them  the  best  part  of  the  year 
—from  April,  say,  to  Thanksgiving.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  us  that  we  would  cut 
loose  altogether  from  the  town — dynamite 
our  bridges,  as  it  were — and  become  a  part 
and  parcel  of  Brook  Ridge. 

Every  day,  neighbors  stopped  to  make 
our  acquaintance  and  learn  our  plans.  We 
interested  them,  for  we  were  the  first  new 
comers  for  many  a  year  to  that  neglected 

51 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


corner  of  the  township.  They  were  the 
kindest  people  in  the  world,  moved,  per 
haps,  less  by  curiosity  than  by  concern  for 
our  comfort  and  happiness.  They  generally 
wanted  to  know  how  we  liked  our  place, 
what  changes  we  were  going  to  make  in  it, 
and  they  never  failed  to  ask  if  we  intended 
to  make  it  our  home  or  merely  a  place  for 
summer-time. 

Our  replies  to  the  last  question,  at  first 
definite,  became  vague  and  qualified,  then 
again  definite,  for  we  admitted  that  we  did 
not  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  place 
was  getting  hold  of  us,  possessing  us,  sur 
rounding  us  on  all  sides  with  its  fascinations. 
It  was  just  an  old  house,  a  few  broken 
acres,  and  a  brook — just  some  old  lumber 
and  stones,  some  ordinary  trees,  some  every 
day  water — not  much,  perhaps,  to  get  ex 
cited  over  or  to  change  one's  scheme  of  life. 
Yet  we  did  get  excited  over  it,  daily,  and 
it  had  suddenly  become  a  main  factor  in 
our  problem  of  life.  The  thought  of  going 
back  to  "six  rooms  and  improvements/' 
with  clanging  bells  and  crashing  wheels, 
and  with  an  expanse  of  dingy  roofs  for 

52 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


scenery,  became  daily  less  attractive.  True, 
we  would  have  to  spend  a  good  deal  more 
money  on  the  old  house  to  fit  it  for  cold 
weather,  but  then  there  would  be  the  saving 
in  rent. 

We  began  to  discuss  the  matter — quiet 
ly,  even  casually,  at  first — then  feverishly, 
positively.  We  were  not  always  on  the 
same  side,  and  there  were  moments  when  a 
stranger  might  have  thought  our  relations 
slightly  strained.  But  this  would  have 
been  to  misjudge  our  method.  We  are  sel 
dom  really  violent  in  argument — though  oc 
casionally  intense.  Besides,  we  were  too 
much  of  a  mind,  now,  for  real  disagreement. 
We  both  yearned  too  deeply  to  set  the  old 
house  in  complete  order,  to  establish  our 
selves  in  it  exclusively  and  live  there  for 
ever  and  ever.  Think  of  Christmas  in  it, 
we  said,  with  the  great  open  fires,  the  snow 
outside,  and  a  Christmas  tree  brought  in 
from  our  own  woods ! 

I  said  at  last  that  I  would  make  a  trip 
to  town,  go  to  the  flat,  and  ship  up  a  few 
articles  for  present  use.  It  would  be  rather 
more  than  a  month  until  our  lease  expired, 

53 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  in  that  time  we  could  decide  some 
thing.  I  secretly  intended  to  send  up  a 
number  of  vital  things  that  would  make  re 
turn  difficult  and  costly.  I  was  not  going 
to  blow  up  our  entire  bridge — I  was  only 
going  to  remove  one  or  two  of  its  necessary 
arches. 

That  was  what  I  did.  I  went  in  one 
morning  and  packed  a  barrel  or  two  of  im 
portant  queensware  and  utensils  and  a  bale 
of  bedding,  without  which  even  the  best 
flat  becomes  a  snare  and  a  mockery.  When 
I  had  seen  it  in  the  hands  of  the  expressman 
I  had  a  feeling  that  our  pretty  apartment 
was  no  longer  home. 

I  went  over  to  my  club  for  luncheon.  A 
number  of  my  friends  were  there,  and  I 
seized  an  auspicious  moment  to  announce 
my  purchase  and  to  exhibit  a  bunch  of 
photographs.  They  were  good  fellows  who 
showed  a  proper  interest.  Some  of  them 
already  owned  farms — some  had  farms  in 
prospect.  The  artists  among  them  agreed 
that  the  old  house  was  a  pretty  fair  example 
of  its  period  and  began  advising  me  what  to 
do  with  it.  But,  as  they  did  not  agree  among 

54 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


themselves,  the  net  result  was  not  valuable. 
Somebody  asked  what  I  was  going  to  plant. 
'Rye/'  I  said. 

For  some  reason  everybody  laughed. 

"All  rye?  What's  the  matter  with 
planting  a  little  Scotch?" 

It  was  not  much  of  a  joke,  but  they 
seemed  to  enjoy  it.  They  were  good  fel 
lows,  as  I  have  said,  but  I  fear  rather  light- 
minded. 

When  I  got  back  to  Brook  Ridge  and 
confessed,  Elizabeth  did  not  seem  surprised. 
In  fact,  it  was  as  if  I  had  been  merely  obey 
ing  orders.  If  there  was  any  further  ques 
tion  as  to  what  we  were  going  to  do,  I  do  not 
recall  it.  Our  landlord  in  town  was  notified, 
our  farmer-carpenter  was  consulted  as  to 
further  alterations.  We  had  definitely  cast 
our  fortunes  with  Brook  Ridge. 


IV 

The  soft  feet  of  the  rain  on  the  shingles 

When   the   articles    I    had   chosen   from 
the    apartment    arrived    Westbury    carted 

55 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


them  up  the  hill  and  we  entered  into  pos 
session  of  our  new  estate — not  of  the 
house  (some  painters  had  possessed  them 
selves  of  that),  but  of  the  wood-house  and 
barn.  The  barn  was  a  big,  airy  place,  suit 
able  for  a  summer  dormitory.  The  wood- 
house  was  not  big,  but  it  was  empty  and 
had  been  set  in  order.  It  had  a  stove-pipe 
hole,  and  Westbury  contributed  a  stove— 
the  first  one  ever  made,  he  said,  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  first  ever  used  in  that  neighbor 
hood.  It  was  a  good  stove,  too,  solidly 
cast,  almost  unbreakable.  Its  legs  were 
gone,  which  was  no  great  matter,  for  we 
set  it  up  on  bricks.  With  a  box  for  a 
table,  we  had  a  proper  living-room,  handy 
and  complete. 

Not  entirely  complete,  either — the  old 
stove  had  no  pipe.  But  just  then  it  hap 
pened  that  the  groceryman  came  along, 
making  one  of  his  two  trips  a  week.  He 
would  deliver  during  the  afternoon,  he  said, 
and  could  bring  along  some  pipe  for  us. 
He  did  that,  but  it  was  a  kind  of  pipe  that 
didn't  fit — not  very  well. 

If  there  is  anything  that  would  make  a 
56 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


man  forget  the  Great  War  it  would  be  put 
ting  up  stove-pipe.  It  seems,  somehow,  to 
overshadow  all  other  misfortunes.  Some 
persons  might  have  enjoyed  matching  up 
those  units,  but  I  did  not,  I  have  no  gift 
that  way.  Elizabeth  said  she  would  help, 
but  she  didn't  seem  to  use  good  judgment — 
not  the  best.  When  I  was  making  a  pain 
fully  careful  adjustment  she  was  possessed 
to  push  a  little,  or  something,  and  make  my 
efforts  futile.  Once  when  the  box  I  was 
standing  on  tipped  over  and  I  came  down, 
with  the  pipe  resolved  into  joints,  she 
seemed  to  think  it  amusing.  At  times,  too, 
our  tribe  of  precious  ones  came  racing 
through.  By  the  time  the  job  was  finished 
Elizabeth  and  I  were  treating  each  other 
rather  coolly — that  is  to  say,  politely.  But 
this  was  temporary.  The  soft  purr  of  a 
fresh  fire,  the  pleasant  singing  of  a  kettle, 
set  us  to  laughing  at  our  troubles.  Man 
Westbury  came  driving  up  with  some  green 
corn,  lettuce,  and  beans  from  the  garden; 
also  a  chicken  and  a  pie  hot  from  Lady 
Westbury 's  oven.  Those  blessed  neighbors ! 
How  good  they  were  to  us!  In  less  than  no 

57 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


time  the  corn  and  beans  were  in  the  pot 
and  I  was  dressing  the  lettuce.  We  had 
brought  down  some  of  the  old  chairs  from 
the  attic,  and  the  tribe  assembled  with  a 
whoop  to  place  them.  A  little  more,  and 
we  were  seated.  The  Hope,  aged  seven, 
who  had  a  gift  for  such  things,  asked  a 
blessing,  and  we  had  begun  life  in  the  new 
home.  I  wonder  why  tears  are  trying  to 
come  as  I  write  about  it.  There  was  never 
a  better  meal,  or  a  jollier  one — never  a 
happier,  healthier  family. 

A  shower  came  up  and  settled  into  a 
gentle  rain.  The  barn,  where  we  were  go 
ing  to  sleep,  was  a  good  step  away,  so  that 
when  the  time  came  we  put  on  our  rubbers, 
took  our  umbrellas  and  a  lantern,  and  set 
out  for  bed.  There  was  nothing  very  won 
derful  about  all  this,  of  course;  it  only 
seemed  wonderful  to  us  because  it  was  all 
so  new.  The  Pride  and  the  Hope  declared 
they  were  always  going  to  sleep  in  the  barn, 
and  when  we  got  inside  the  big,  lofty  place, 
and  in  the  gloom  overheard  heard  the  soft 
feet  of  the  rain  on  the  shingles,  I,  too,  had 
a  deep -down  wish  that  there  was  nothing 

58 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


in  the  world  but  this — that  the  pleasant 
night  and  soothing  patter  might  never  cease. 
Truth  obliges  me  to  confess  that  on  that 
first  night  our  bed  was  not  an  entire  success. 
For  convenience  and  economy  we  had  laid 
it  in  a  continuous  stretch  on  the  floor, 
with  some  hay  beneath.  There  being  not 
enough  mattresses  for  all,  I  had  built  an 
extension  of  hay  for  the  elder  members  of 
the  family.  It  was  the  best  hay,  but  I  had 
used  it  too  sparingly.  I  suppose  I  had  not 
realized  how,  with  adjustment,  it  would 
Back  and  separate.  I  know  it  had  hardened 
considerably  by  the  time  I  had  made  one 
or  two  turns  as  a  necessary  preparation  for 
sleep.  •  I  remarked  each  time  how  delight 
ful  it  all  was,  to  which  Elizabeth  agreed, 
though  she  had  the  courage  presently  to 
venture  that  she  didn't  think  it  quite  as 
soft  as  one  of  Lady  Westbury's  feather 
beds.  The  Pride  observed  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  certain  horsey  smell  that 
did  not  entirely  please  her,  though  the  Joy, 
who  was  probably  imagining  herself  hitched 
in  one  of  the  stalls,  declared  that  she  liked 
that  best  of  anything.  As  for  the  Hope— 

59 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


clear  of  conscience  and  worn  with  the  riot 
of  the  day — she  had  plunged  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  into  the  blessed  busi 
ness  of  sleep.  It  engaged  us  all,  at  length, 

and  we  must  have 
become  adapted  by 
morning,  for  when  we 
were  all  awake  and 
lay  in  the  dim  light, 
listening  to  the  quiet 
music  of  the  continu 
ing  rain,  there  was  no 
voice  of  discontent, 
Elizabeth  thought  it 
likely  that  she  was 
considerably  bruised, 
but,  as  she  made  no 
complaint  later,  this 
was  perhaps  a  false 
alarm. 

When  I  crept  out 
and  pushed  open  the 
wide  front  doors,  I 
found  that  the  brook 
had  risen  and  was  slipping  across  the  grass 
of  the  lower  yard.  It  had  a  tempting  look, 

60 


Dwellers  in  A  ready 


and  the  rain  had  all  but  ceased.  I  picked 
my  way  down  to  it,  and,  hanging  my  gar 
ments  on  a  limb,  enjoyed  the  richest  luxury 
in  the  world — that  of  bathing  in  the  open 
air,  sheltered  only  by  the  sky  and  the 
greenery,  in  one's  own  brook  and  one's 
own  door-yard.  Interlacing  boughs,  birds 
singing,  the  cool,  slipping  water — no  mill 
ionaire  could  have  more.  I  was  heir  to  the 
best  the  ages  had  to  give. 


Elizabeth's  ideas  were  not  poetic 

We  were  busy  with  our  new  plans. 
We  decided  to  shingle  the  roof,  which 
showed  an  inclination  to  leak;  also  the  sides, 
which  in  numerous  places  besides  the  win 
dows  admitted  samples  of  the  outdoors. 
Such  things  did  not  matter  so  much  in 
summer-time,  but  New  England  in  winter  is 
different.  Then  the  roof  and  door-yard  are 
piled  with  snow,  the  northwest  wind  seeks  out 
the  tiniest  crevice  in  one's  armor.  How  did 
those  long-ago  people  manage?  Their  walls 

61 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


were  not  sheeted,  and  they  did  not  know 
the  use  of  building-paper.  Our  old  wide 
siding  had  been  laid  directly  on  the  bare 
timbers,  the  studding;  every  crevice  under 
the  windows,  every  crack  in  the  plaster,  was 
a  short  circuit  with  zero.  We  decided  to 
take  off  the  antique  siding,  cut  out  the  bad 
places,  and  relay  it  flat,  as  sheeting.  Over 
it  we  would  lay  building-paper,  and  on 
top  of  this,  good  substantial  shingles,  laid 
wide  to  the  weather  in  the  old-fashioned 
way. 

It  hurt  us  to  think  of  covering  up  that 
fine  original  siding — priceless  stuff,  a  foot 
wide  and  of  the  softest,  straightest- grained 
white  pine,  cut  from  large  trees  such  as  no 
longer  grow — but  we  did  not  know  what  else 
to  do  with  it.  It  was  a  wonderful  antique, 
but  we  could  not  afford  to  keep  a  pile  of 
lumber  just  for  exhibition  purposes.  I  said 
it  ought  to  be  in  a  museum,  and  I  had 
some  thought  of  offering  it  to  the  Metro 
politan,  at  a  modest  valuation,  next  time  I 
went  to  town.  Elizabeth  discouraged  this 
idea.  She  suggested  that  I  have  it  made  up 
into  Brook  Ridge  souvenirs — little  trays  and 

62 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


paper-cutters — a  wagon-load  or  two,  then 
start  out  and  peddle  them.  The  scheme 
dazzled  me  for  a  moment,  but  I  resisted  it. 
So  in  the  end  it  became  just  sheeting.  I 
did  pick  out  one  fine  example — a  piece  with 
some  of  the  original  red  paint  still  on  it— 
and  said  I  meant  to  have  it  framed,  but  in 
the  course  of  the  work,  at  a  moment  when 
my  back  was  turned,  the  carpenter  got  hold 
of  it,  so  I  fear  there  is  no  exposed  scrap  of  it 
to-day.  It  is  all  there  under  the  shingles, 
and  will  still  be  there  for  other  shingles 
when  those  are  gone.  The  nails  that  held 
it  were  made  by  hand,  every  one  of  them, 
and  I  did  save  some  of  those,  for  they  were 
really  beautiful.  But  think  of  the  patient 
labor  of  making  them.  I  suppose  a  skilled 
and  rapid  workman  could  turn  out  as  many 
as  twenty  of  those  nails  in  an  hour.  A 
detail  like  that  gives  one  a  sort  of  measure 
ment  of  those  deliberate  days. 

We  did  not  always  agree  as  to  our  im 
provements.  I  don't  think  our  arguments 
ever  became  heated — one  might  charac 
terize  them  as,  well,  ardent.  If  Elizabeth 
thought  my  ideas  sometimes  wild,  not  to 

63 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


say  crazy,  I  don't  remember  that  she  ever 
put  it  just  in  that  way.  If  I  thought  hers 
inclined  to  be  prosaic  and  earthy,  I  was 
careful  to  be  out  of  range  and  hearing  be 
fore  I  expressed  myself.  I  remember  once 
suggesting  that  we  do  our  cooking  and  heat 
ing  entirely  in  the  old  way — that  is  to  say, 
using  the  fireplaces  and  the  Dutch  oven— 
and  was  pained  to  find  that  Elizabeth  was 
contemplating  a  furnace  and  a  kitchen 
range.  She  asked  me  rather  pointedly  who 
I  thought  was  going  to  get  in  wood  enough 
to  keep  four  fireplaces  running,  and  if  I 
fancied  the  idea  of  going  to  bed  in  the  big 
north  room  up-stairs  with  the  thermometer 
shrinking  below  zero. 

It  was  still  August  at  the  moment,  and 
the  prospect  was  not  so  disturbing.  I  said 
that  hardy  races  always  did  those  things, 
that  the  old  builders  of  this  house  had 
probably  not  minded  it  at  all,  and  just 
see  to  what  great  old  ages  they  had  lived. 
I  said  that  as  a  child  I  had  even  done  it 
myself. 

"So  did  I,"  said  Elizabeth;  "that  is  why 
I  am  not  going  to  do  it  now." 

64 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


She  walked  out  with  quite  a  firm  step, 
and  I  did  not  pursue  the  matter.  I  might 
have  done  so,  but  I  had  a  vision,  just  then, 
of  a  boy  who  had  lived  on  the  Western 
prairies,  in  a  big  box  of  a  house,  and  had 
gone  to  bed  in  a  room  that  was  about  the 
temperature  of  the  snow -drifted  yard.  I 
could  see  him  madly  flinging  off  a  few  outer 
garments,  making  a  spring  into  a  bed  that 
was  like  a  frozen  pond,  lying  there  in  a 
bunch,  getting  tolerably  warm  at  last,  but 
all  night  long  fearful  of  moving  an  inch 
because  of  his  frigid  boundaries.  As  for  the 
matter  of  wood,  well,  I  had  carried  that,  too, 
cords  of  it,  for  a  fireplace  that  had  devoured 
it  relentlessly  and  given  nothing  adequate  in 
return.  I  recalled  that  in  cold  weather  I 
had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  warm 
on  both  sides  at  once,  that  I  had  scorched 
my  face  while  my  back  was  freezing,  then 
turned,  like  a  chicken  on  a  spit,  to  bake 
the  other  side.  Without  doubt  I  had  grown 
used  to  it,  so  used  to  it  that  it  had  never 
occurred  to  me  that  in  cold  weather  any  one 
really  could  be  warm  on  both  sides  at  once; 
also,  perhaps,  it  had  hardened  me,  still— 
6  65 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Elizabeth's  ideas  were  not  poetic;  they 
did  not  express  art  for  art's  sake;  anybody 
could  see  that;  but,  after  all,  there  would 
be  days — January  days — when  a  fireplace 
alone,  however  beautiful  as  an  ornament, 
would  not  make  enough  impression  on  the 
family  circle,  and  scarcely  any  at  all  on  the 
up-stairs.  Coming  up  rather  quietly  some 
what  later,  she  found  me  sitting  under  the 
big  maple,  surreptitiously  studying  a  range 
and  furnace  catalogue  borrowed  of  West- 
bury.  We  decided  on  Acme  Hummers  and 
I  gave  the  order  to  the  postman  next 
morning. 


VI 


Our  last  night  in  the  barn  was  not  like 
the  others 

We  lived  a  full  week  in  the  wood-house 
and  barn,  a  week  that  is  chiefly  memorable 
to  me  now  because  of  the  kindness  of  our 
neighbors. 

I  wonder  if  in  every  New  England  neigh 
borhood  new-comers  are  treated  as  we  were. 

66 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


It  was  high  garden  season,  and  I  think  not 
a  day  passed  that  at  least  one  basket  of 
sweet  corn,  beans,  lettuce,  and  such  noble 
things  was  not  set  at  our  doors. 

From  all  about  they  came,  and  how  sweet 
and  fresh  they  were!  There  had  been  no 
lack  of  showers  that  summer,  and  gardens 
were  at  their  best.  Nothing  is  so  good  as 
sweet  corn,  freshly  picked  and  put  in  the 
pot.  We  had  never  really  had  enough  of 
it  before.  Now  we  had  to  strain  our  appe 
tites  to  keep  up  with  the  supply.  And 
lima  beans,  and  buttered  beets,  and  cucum 
bers  and  crisp  salads,  and  fresh  cabbage 
slaw !  Dear  me !  Why  must  any  one  have 
to  stay  in  town  where  all  those  things  are 
scarce,  and  costly,  and  days  old,  and  wilted, 
when  he  can  go  to  the  country  and  have 
them  fresh  and  abundant  from  the  garden 
—of  his  neighbor? 

Some  of  the  offerings  were  really  artistic, 
prettily  arranged,  and  garnished  with  flow 
ers.  Old  Nat  of  the  whitewash  came  one 
evening  with  a  huge  round  basket,  in  the 
center  of  which  was  a  big  yellow  pumpkin, 
the  first  of  his  crop,  and  ranged  about  it  ears 

67 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


of  corn,  big  red  tomatoes,  and  heads  of 
lettuce,  the  whole  like  some  wonderful  great 
flower.  But  then  Nat  was  always  an  artist 
at  heart. 

Our  last  night  in  the  barn  was  not  like 
the  others.  We  had  become  very  com 
fortable  there,  for  we  had  built  our  hay 
higher,  and  we  had  learned  the  art  of  resting 
in  that  processional  fashion,  while  the  big, 
airy  place  and  the  patter  of  the  not  in 
frequent  rain  had  grown  dear  to  us.  But 
that  last  night  was  different.  It  rained, 
as  usual,  but  it  did  something  more.  I  had 
been  asleep  an  indeterminable  time  when  I 
was  aroused  by  a  crash  of  thunder  that  for 
a  moment  I  thought  had  taken  off  the  roof. 
In  the  glimmer  of  lightning  that  followed  I 
realized  that  Elizabeth  was  awake — also 
the  Pride,  aged  twelve. 

It  was  the  sort  of  storm  to  make  one  sit 
up  on  his  elbow.  Elizabeth  sat  up  on  hers, 
and  declined  to  lie  back  even  when  assured 
that  it  would  be  easier  for  the  lightning  to 
hit  her  in  that  half-erect  position.  The 
Pride  began  asking  persistently  if  the  barn 
was  going  to  be  struck.  The  Joy,  who  was 

68 


T  made  about  three  leaps  and  grabbed 
it,    and    a    second    later    had    it 
hooked   and   was   back,    the   lightning 
at  my  heels 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


next  me,  suddenly  grabbed  my  arm  and 
clung  like  a  burr,  saying  nothing.  The 
Hope,  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  an  upright 
life,  aided  by  a  perfect  digestion,  slept  as 
one  in  a  trance,  while  the  fierce  pounding 
grew  more  alarming  as  flash  followed  flash 
and  the  crashes  came  more  promptly  and 
forcibly  on  the  heels  of  every  flare.  I  don't 
think  I  was  exactly  afraid,  but  I  could  not 
altogether  forget  the  tradition  that  light 
ning  has  a  mania  for  striking  barns  and  it 
was  this  that  had  occurred  to  Elizabeth. 
She  said  she  had  been  reading  of  storms 
like  this  in  Jamaica,  and  that  invariably 
they  had  struck  barns,  though  whether  she 
meant  Jamaica  of  southern  waters  or  the 
pretty  suburb  on  Long  Island  by  that  name 
I  have  not  learned  to  this  day. 

There  was  no  wind,  but  all  at  once,  at  the 
very  height  of  things,  when  the  flashes  and 
the  crashes  came  together  and  the  very  sky 
seemed  about  to  explode,  one  of  our  wide 
barn  doors  swung  slowly,  silently  open,  as 
if  moved  by  a  spirit  hand,  and  at  the  same 
instant  there  came  a  blaze  and  roar  that 
fairly  filled  the  barn.  A  moment  later  the 

69 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


great  door  silently  closed;  then  once  more 
opened  to  let  in  a  blinding,  deafening  shot. 
I  could  tell  by  what  Elizabeth  said  that 
the  big  door  ought  to  be  shut  and  securely 
fastened.  I  made  about  three  leaps  and 
grabbed  it,  and  a  second  later  had  it  hooked 


and  was  back,  the  lightning  at  my  heels. 
Then  the  clouds  must  have  upset,  for  there 
came  a  downpour  that  fairly  drowned  the 
world. 

But  the  artillery  was  passing.  Soon  flash 
and  roar  came  farther  apart  and  modified 
by  distance.  Nothing  was  left  at  last  but  a 
soothing  rumble  and  the  whisper  of  the  re 
ceding  rain.  We  slept,  and  woke  to  find 

70 


Dwellers'  in  Arcady 


ourselves  rich  in  sunlight,  blue  sky,  and 
overflowing  rain-barrels.  This  made  it  wash 
day  for  Elizabeth  and  the  tribe,  and  pres 
ently  all  the  lines  were  full.  It  was  a  glo 
rious  storm,  but  that  afternoon  we  moved 
our  sleeping-arrangements  to  the  house. 
The  painters  had  finished  up-stairs,  and 
there  was  no  purpose  in  exposing  ourselves 
to  storms  which,,  for  all  we  knew,  came 
straight  from  Jamaica,  where  they  had  a 
mania  for  hitting  barns. 


CHAPTER  THREE 


At  the  threshold  of  the  past 


WONDER  if  you  are  any 
thing  like  as  anxious  to  get 
into  our  old  attic  as  we 
were.  That  is  not  likely. 
To  us  it  meant  romance, 
even  a  kind  of  sorcery — a 
bodily  transmigration  into 
the  magic  past. 
Now  and  then  during  those  August  days 
we  would  open  the  door  below  and  look  up, 
perhaps  even  climb  the  stair  and  peer 
around  a  little,  possessed  by  the  spell  of  it, 
deterred  only  by  our  immediate  affairs  and 
the  heat. 

Then  at  last  came  a  day,  a  cool  Sunday 
when  it  was  raining  softly,  and  the  tribe 
were  having  a  "perfectly  lovelly"  time  in  the 
barn,  Elizabeth  and  I  climbed  the  rickety 
stairway  to  the  Land  of  the  Long  Ago. 

72 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


There  could  be  no  better  time  for  it — the 
quiet  rain  overhead,  no  workmen,  no  likeli 
hood  of  visitors. 

At  the  top  of  the  stair  we  hesitated  and 
looked  about  with  something  of  the  feeling 
that  I  suppose  the 
Egyptian  explor 
er  had  when  he 
looked  into  the 
furnished  tomb  of 
Queen  Thi.  We 
were  at  the 
threshold  of  the 
past. 

A  small  win 
dow  at  each  end 
gave  light  in 
plenty.  There  was 
a  good  deal  of 
dust,  and  there 
were  some  cob 
webs  in  the  cor 
ners,  but  these  did  not  disturb  us.  Only,  we 
were  a  little  bewildered  by  the  extent  of  our 
possessions.  We  hardly  knew  where  to 
begin. 

73 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


At  first  we  picked  our  way  about  rather 
aimlessly,  pointing  to  this  thing  and  that, 
our  voices  subdued.  There  were  all  the 
high-backed  chairs — fourteen,  we  counted, 
with  those  already  carried  down.  Most 
of  them  would  need  new  rush  bottoms  and 
black  paint,  but  otherwise  they  had  with 
stood  the  generations.  They  were  prob 
ably  a  part  of  the  old  house's  original  fur 
nishing — these  and  at  least  one  of  the 
spinning-wheels,  of  which  there  were  four, 
the  large  kind,  used  for  spinning  wool ;  also 
the  reel  for  winding  yarn.  Then  we  noticed 
a  low  wooden  cradle,  darkened  with  age, 
its  sides  polished  by  the  hands  that  had 
rocked  it — that  had  come  next,  no  doubt. 
We  remarked  that  one  of  the  spinning- 
wheels  was  considerably  smaller  than  the 
others — a  child's  wheel.  We  thought  it 
might  have  come  later,  when  one  of  the 
early  occupants  of  the  cradle  had  been 
taught  to  do  her  stint.  It  made  a  small, 
plaintive  noise  when  I  turned  it,  and  I 
could  see  a  little  old-fashioned  girl  in  linsey- 
woolsey  dress  and  home-made  shoes  and 
stockings,  in  front  of  the  big  fireplace  down- 

74 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


stairs,  turning  and  turning  to  that  droning 
cadence,  through  long  winter  afternoons. 
Those  other  wheels  had  come  for  other 
daughters,  or  daughters-in-law,  and  if  there 
ever  was  a  time  when  all  four  were  going  at 
once,  the  low,  long  room  must  have  been  a 
busy  place. 

From  a  nail  in  a  rafter  hung  a  rusty  tin 
lantern,  through  the  patterned  holes  of 
which  a  single  candle  had  once  sprinkled 
with  light  the  progress  of  the  farmer's  eve 
ning  chores.  That,  too,  had  belonged  to  the 
early  time,  and  from  a  dim  corner  I  drew 
another  important  piece  of  furniture  of  that 
day.  At  first  this  appeared  to  be  a  nest  of 
wooden  chopping-bowls,  oblong  as  to  shape 
and  evidently  fashioned  by  hand.  Then 
remembering  something  that  Westbury  had 
told  me,  I  recognized  these  bowls  as  trench 
ers,  the  kind  used  in  New  England  when 
pioneer  homes  were  rather  short  in  the 
matter  of  tableware.  The  trencher  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  table  and  contained  the 
dinner — oftenest  a  boiled  dinner,  I  suppose 
—and  members  of  the  family  helped  them 
selves  from  it — I  hesitate  to  say  with  their 

75 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


fingers,  but  evidence  as  to  table  cutlery  in 
the  pioneer  home  of  that  period  is  very 
scanty.  And,  after  all,  if  they  had  no 
plates,  what  need  of  cutlery?  Their  good, 
active  fingers  and  stout  teeth  were  made  be 
fore  knives  and  forks,  and  they  did  not  enjoy 
their  dinner  the  less  for  having  it  in  that 
intimate  way.  I  confess  a  sneaking  weak 
ness  myself  for  an  informal  chicken  bone 
or  spare-rib — for  most  anything  of  the  sort, 
in  fact,  that  I  can  get  a  fairly  firm  hold 
of.  It  is  better,  of  course,  to  have  a  handle 
to  one's  gravy,  and  sometimes,  when  the 
family  is  looking  the  other  way,  I  can 
manage  a  swipe  with  a  slice  of  bread,  and 
so  get  a  brief  golden  sample  of  the  joys  of 
my  ancestors.  The  two  smaller  trenchers 
must  have  been  used  when  company  came 
—one  for  the  bread,  possibly ;  the  other  for 
pudding.  I  hope  it  was  good,  firm  pudding, 
so  that  it  could  be  managed  without  waste. 
We  found  the  kettle  that  they  made  the 
boiled  dinner  in,  an  enormous  three-legged 
witch-pot,  also  a  number  of  big  iron  crane 
hangers,  for  swinging  vessels  above  the  open 
fire.  And  there  were  three  gridirons  of  dif- 

76 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


ferent  patterns,  for  grilling  meat  over  the 
coals — one  of  them  round  with  a  revolving 
top,  another  square,  sloping,  with  a  little 
trough  at  the  bottom  to  catch  the  juice  of 
a  broiling  steak.  Elizabeth  agreed  that  we 
might  use  those  sometimes  and  I  set  them 
over  by  the  stair.  We  were  not  delving 
deeply,  not  by  any  means — just  picking  off 
the  nuggets,  as  it  were.  It  would-be  weeks 
before  we  would  know  the  full  extent  of 
our  collection. 

Pushed  back  under  the  eaves  there  were 
what  appeared  to  be  several  "cord'*  bed 
steads,  not  the  high-posted  kind — that 
would  have  been  too  much  to  expect — but 
the  low,  home-made  maple  bedsteads  such 
as  one  often  sees  to-day  in  New  England, 
shortened  up  into  garden  seats.  There 
were,  in  fact,  seven  of  them,  as  we  discov 
ered  later.  They  would  be  of  the  early 
period,  too,  and  probably  had  not  been 
used  for  a  good  hundred  years. 

But  it  was  the  item  we  discovered  next 
that  would  take  rank,  I  think,  in  the  matter 
of  age.  At  the  moment  we  did  not  under 
stand  it  at  all.  It  was  a  section  of  a 

77 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


hickory-tree,  about  fifteen  inches  through 
and  two  feet  high,  hollowed  out  at  the  top 
to  a  depth  of  nearly  a  foot.  It  was  smooth 
inside  and  looked  as  if  something  had  been 
pounded  in  it,  as  in  a  mortar.  Presently 
we  came  upon  a  long,  heavy  hickory  mal 
let,  tapering  at  one  end,  smoothly  rounded 
at  the  other.  It  had  a  short  handle,  and 
we  thought  it  might  have  been  a  sort  of 
pestle  for  the  big  mortar.  But  what  had 
those  old  people  ground  in  it? 

Westbury  told  us  later;  it  had  been  their 
mill.  By  a  slow,  patient  process  they  had 
macerated  their  corn  in  it  until  it  was  fine 
enough  for  bread. 

The  old  hand-mill  would  undoubtedly 
take  priority  in  the  matter  of  antiquity. 
Those  early  settlers  could  do  without  beds 
and  chairs  and  trenchers  and  cradles,  even 
without  spinning-wheels  for  a  time,  but  they 
must  very  quickly  have  bread — corn,  and 
a  place  to  grind  it.  I  think  the  old  mil] 
was  older  than  the  house.  I  think  it  came 
almost  with  the  earliest  camp-fire. 

The  articles  thus  far  mentioned  were  all 
in  one  end  of  the  attic.  We  were  by  no  means 

78 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


through  when  we  turned  to  the  other  end, 
the  space  beyond  the  great  chimney.  Here 
under  the  eaves  were  piles  of  yellow  period 
icals  -  -  religious  papers,  the  New  York 
Tribune,  and  those  weekly  story -papers 
whose  thrilling  "romances  of  real  life," 
like  "Parted  at  the  Altar"  and  "The  Lost 
Heir  of  Earlecliffe,"  were  so  popular  with 
those  young  ladies  of  slender  waists  and 
sloping  shoulders  who  became  our  grand 
mothers.  I  think  none  of  the  numbers 
dated  farther  back  than  the  early  forties  of 
the  last  century,  and  they  were  not  very  invit 
ing,  for  they  were  dusty  and  discolored  and  the 
mice  had  gnawed  holes  in  the  career  of  Lord 
Reginald  and  the  sorrows  of  Lady  Maude. 
But  there  were  better  things  than  these 
— jugs,  jars,  and  bottles  of  marvelous  pat 
terns,  and  a  stone  churn,  and  some  pewter 
and  luster  teapots,  damaged  somewhat,  it  is 
true,  but  good  for  mantel  decoration  over 
our  fireplaces,  and  there  were  some  queer 
old  bandboxes,  ornamented  with  flowers  and 
landscapes,  and  finally  two  small  wooden 
chests  and  a  fascinating  box  of  odds  and 
ends,  metal  things,  for  the  most  part. 

7  79 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


We  looked  into  the  bandboxes.  Some  of 
them  were  empty,  but  in  others  were  odds 
and  ends  of  finery  and  quaint  examples  of 
millinery,  the  turban  and  poke  and  calash 
of  vanished  generations,  some  of  them 
clearly  copied  after  the  model  worn  by 
Lady  Maude  at  the  very  moment  when  at 
the  church  door  she  turned  haughtily  from 
Lord  Crewston  forever.  We  drew  the  chests 
to  the  light  and  took  out  garments  of 
several  sorts  and  of  a  variety  of  fashions. 
There  were  dresses  of  calico  and  delaine  of 
the  Civil  War  days,  a  curious  cape  which 
we  thought  had  been  called  a  "circular," 
a  pretty  silk  apron  with  a  bib,  once  precious 
to  some  young  girl.  Some  of  the  waists 
were  very  slim,  closely  following  the  out 
lines  of  Lady  Maude.  Others  were  different 
—oh,  very  much  so.  I  think  these  were  of 
an  earlier  period,  for  among  other  things 
there  were  a  number  of  garments  made  of 
stout,  hand-woven  linen,  embroidered  with 
initials  which  had  not  belonged  to  the 
house  for  nearly  a  century.  I  hope  they 
were  not  a  part  of  a  bridal  outfit,  for  no 
bride,  no  really  popular  bride,  ought  to  be 

80 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


as  ample  as  must  have  been  the  owner  of 
those  ch — garments,  I  mean.  One  of  them, 
opened  out,  would  be  quite  wide  enough 
for  a  sheet,  Elizabeth  said,  though  some 
what  lacking  in  length.  She  thought  they 
would  do  for  single  beds,  turned  the  other 
way.  There  were  sturdy  women  in  those 
days. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  chest  there  was 
a  pair  of  red  and  very  pointed  dancing- 
slippers.  I  don't  think  they  belonged  to 
the  same  person.  Neither  did  they  belong 
to  the  period  of  Lady  Maude,  being  much 
older.  They  were  very  small  and  slim,  and 
daintily  made.  Where  had  such  pretty 
feet  found  floors  on  which  to  dance? 

We  laid  them  back  with  the  other  things 
where  they  had  been  put  such  a  Jong  time 
ago,  and  turned  to  the  box  of  odds  and 
ends.  There  were  knobs  and  latches  and 
keys — all  of  the  old  pattern — a  hand-made 
padlock,  some  flat  wrought  hinges  and  some 
hand-wrought  nails,  left,  perhaps,  after  the 
house  was  built.  We  sat  flat  on  the  floor 
to  paw  over  these  curious  things,  and  the 
dull  light,  and  the  rain  just  overhead,  cer- 

81 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


tainly  detracted  nothing  from  our  illusions. 
Every  little  piece  in  that  box  seemed  to  us 
a  treasure.  The  old  hinges  would  go  on 
our  new  closet  doors,  held  by  the  hand 
made  nails.  The  padlock  was  for  the  out 
side  cellar  door.  The  knobs  would  replace 
certain  reproductions  on  some  of  our  an- 
tiq  ue  furniture.  We  knew  what  such  things 
cost  at  the  shops  and  how  hard  they  were 
to  find.  And  just  then  Elizabeth  came  upon 
a  plated-silver  buckle,  and  then  upon  an 
other — a  pair  of  them — old  shoe  or  garter 
buckles,  we  could  not  be  sure  which.  Why, 
our  attic  was  a  regular  treasure  island! 

We  picked  out  a  number  of  things  that 
seemed  of  special  interest,  including  an  iron 
crane  we  had  found,  and  carried  them  down 
stairs.  The  crane  fitted  the  fireplace  in 
the  smaller  room,  which  was  to  become 
our  kitchen.  We  hung  it  and  kindled  a  fire 
—our  first  real  fire,  for  it  was  our  first  cool 
day.  There  was  litter  on  the  floor,  but  we 
did  not  mind  it.  We  looked  into  the  cheer 
ful  blaze,  handled  over  the  trifles  we  had 
found,  and  in  quiet  voices  spoke  of  the 
past.  During  our  two  hours  or  so  in  the 

82 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


old  attic  we  had  been  in  step  with  the  gen 
erations.  We  had  broken  bread  at  the 
camp-fire  of  the  pioneer;  we  had  seen  him 
build  his  house  and  provide  it  with  the 
simple,  durable  furnishings  of  his  day;  we 


had  shared  the  easy  comfort  of  his  hearty 
board ;  we  had  drawn  near  to  his  good  wife 
as  she  rocked  the  cradle  or  sat  spinning 
in  the  firelight;  we  had  watched  their 
descendants  attain  prosperity  and  a  taste 
for  finery;  we  had  seen  how  they  had  ac 
quired  fashion  and  in  time  had  patterned 
their  gowns,  their  bonnets,  perhaps  even 
their  romances  upon  models  of  Lady  Maude. 
They  were  all  gone  now,  leaving  us  to  carry 
on  the  story.  We  also  would  go  our  way; 

83 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


others  would  follow  us,  and  they,  too, 
would  pass.  It  was  a  moment  to  look  into 
the  fire  and  think  long,  long  thoughts. 

II 

Paper-hanging  is  not  a  natural  gift 

One  day  I  measured  up  our  walls,  and 
the  next  I  went  to  town  and  bought  the 
paper  that  was  to  cover  them.  I  think  it 
generally  pays  to  do  that,  provided  you  can 
get  somebody  to  hang  it.  There  is  a  very 
pretty  margin  in  wall-paper,  and  when  you 
get  a  good  deal  of  it  that  margin  gnaws  into 
one's  substance.  Shopping  around  the  de 
partment  stores,  picking  up  remnant  bar 
gains,  is  the  thing.  I  ran  onto  a  lot  of 
bedroom  paper  of  a  quaint  chintzy  pattern 
at  four  cents  a  roll,  or  about  one-fifth  what 
it  would  have  cost  in  the  regular  way.  I 
took  enough  of  it  for  all  the  upper  rooms, 
with  some  to  spare,  and  was  sorry  there 
were  not  more  rooms,  so  I  could  take  it  all. 
Then  I  found  a  gorgeous  remnant  of  the 
glazed-tile  variety  for  the  kitchen,  and  still 

84 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


another  for  our  prospective  bath-room.  A 
dull -green  cartridge-paper  for  our  living- 
room,  "best"  room,  and  my  tiny  study  be 
hind  the  chimney  cost  me  eighteen  cents  a 
roll.  The  total  bill  was  sixteen  fifty-nine, 
and  I  got  at  least  twice  the  pleasure  out  of 
the  size  of  that  bill  that  I  would  have  had 
in  earning  double  the  sum  in  the  time  I 
spent.  Figure  out  the  profit  in  that  trans 
action  if  you  can.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was 
satisfactory,  and  indeed  few  things  in  life 
are  sweeter  than  the  practice  of  our  pet  and 
petty  economies.  We  all  have  them.  I 
once  knew  a  very  rich  man  who  would  light 
a  match  and  race  from  one  gas-jet  to  an 
other  until  he  burnt  his  fingers,  lighting 
as  many  as  he  could  before  striking  a  second 
match.  He  would  generally  say  something 
when  his  fingers  began  to  smoke,  but  to  have 
lighted  all  the  jets  at  both  ends  of  his  long 
room  was  a  triumph  that  made  this  brief 
inconvenience  of  small  account.  I  have 
also  seen  him  spend  more  time,  and  even 
money,  utilizing  some  worn-out  appliance 
than  a  new  one  would  cost.  He  was  not  a 
stingy  man,  either,  not  by  any  means,  but 

85 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


those  things  were  ingrained  and  vital. 
They  helped  to  provide  his  life  with  interest 
and  satisfaction — hence,  were  worth  while. 

To  go  back  to  the  papering:  I  bought 
some  tools — that  is  to  say,  a  paste-brush, 
and  a  smoothing-down  brush,  and  a  long 
pair  of  scissors,  for  I  had  a  suspicion  that 
my  painters  would  be  at  their  fall  farming 
presently,  in  which  case  Westbury,  who  I 
was  satisfied  could  do  anything,  had  agreed 
to  beautify  our  walls. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  hung  most  of  that 
sixteen  dollars  and  fifty-nine  cents'  worth 
of  paper  myself.  When  I  got  back,  my 
painters  were  about  to  begin  cutting  their 
corn.  Westbury  came,  but  at  the  end  of 
the  first  day,  when  one  of  the  up-stairs 
rooms  was  about  finished,  he  also  developed 
a  violent  interest  in  corn-cutting.  I  was 
thus  abandoned  to  fate,  also  quite  deserted. 
My  carpenters  were  cutting  corn;  Luther 
Merrill,  my  handsome  plowman,  was  cutting 
corn;  Old  Pop  and  Sam  were  cutting  corn; 
while  Elizabeth  had  gone  to  the  apartment 
in  town  to  begin  preparations  for  moving, 
and  to  put  the  Pride  and  the  Hope  into 

86 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


school.  I  was  alone — alone  with  sixteen 
dollars'  worth  of  paper,  a  big,  flat  paste- 
brush,  and  my  bare,  bare  walls. 

Meantime  I  had  trimmed  some  of  the 
strips  for  Westbury  and  had  given  some 
slight  attention  to  his  artistic  method.  It 
looked  rather  easy,  and  there  was  still 
half  a  pail  of  paste.  In  some  things 
I  am  impulsive,  even  daring.  With 
a  steady  hand  I  measured,  cut  off, 
and  trimmed  a  strip  of  the  pretty 
chintzy  paper,  laid 
it  face  down  on  the 
papering-board 
which  Wectbury  had 
made,  slapped  on  the 
paste  with  a  free  and 
business-like  dash,  folded 
up  the  end  just  as  West- 
bury  did,  picked  it  up  with  an  easy,  profes 
sional  swing,  and  started  for  the  wall. 

Being  a  tall  man,  I  did  not  need  the  step- 
ladder.  In  those  low  rooms  I  could  quite 
easily  stand  on  the  floor  and  paper  from  the 
ceiling  down.  Certainly  that  was  an  ad 
vantage.  I  discovered,  however,  that  a 

87 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


step-ladder  is  not  all  of  a  paper-hanger's 
gifts.  When  I  matched  that  piece  of  paper 
at  the  ceiling  and  started  down  with  it,  I 
realized  presently  that  it  was  not  going 
in  the  direction  of  the  floor.  At  least  not 
directly.  It  was  slanting  off  at  a  bias  to 
the  southeast,  leaving  a  long,  lean,  wedge- 
shaped  gap  between  it  and  the  last 
strip.  I  pulled  it  off  and  started  again, 
shifting  the  angle.  But  I  overdid  the 
thing.  This  time  it  went  biasing  off  in  the 
other  direction  and  left  an  untidy  smudge 
of  paste  on  Westbury's  nice,  clean  strip.  I 
reflected  that  this  would  probably  dry  out 
—if  not,  I  would  hang  a  picture  over  it. 
Then  I  gave  the  strip  I  was  hanging  a  little 
twitch,  being  a  trifle  annoyed,  perhaps,  by 
this  time,  and  was  pained  to  see  that  an 
irregular  patch  of  it  remained  on  the  wall, 
while  the  rest  of  it  fell  sloppily  into  my 
hands.  It  appeared  that  wall-paper  became 
tender  with  damp  paste  on  it  and  should  not 
be  jerked  about  in  that  nervous  way.  In 
seeking  to  remove  the  ragged  piece  from 
the  plaster,  holding  up  the  mutilated  strip 
meanwhile,  something  else  occurred,  I  don't 

88 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


quite  know  what,  but  I  suddenly  felt  a  damp 
and  gluey  mess  on  my  face,  and  then  it  was 
around  my  neck,  and  then  I  discovered  that 
a  portion  of  it  had  in  some  way  got  tangled 
up  with  my  legs,  upon  which  I  think  I 
became  rather  positive,  for  I  seem  to  have 
wadded  up  several  gooey  balls  of  chintzy 
decoration  and  hurled  them  through  the 
open  window,  far  out  upon  the  sun-flecked 
yard. 

I  went  below  and  washed  up,  and  for  a 
time  sat  under  the  maple  shade  and  smoked. 
When  more  calm  I  said :  ' l  This  is  nothing — 
it  is  only  a  first  lesson.  Paper-hanging  re 
quires  probationary  study  and  experiment. 
It  is  not  a  natural  gift,  an  extempore  thing 
like  authorship  and  song.  I  have  paper 
enough  to  afford  another  lesson.  This  time 
I  shall  consider  deeply  and  use  great  care. 

I  went  back  and  prepared  another  strip, 
humbly  and  without  any  attempt  at  style. 
This  time,  too,  I  did  not  consider  the  line  of 
the  ceiling,  but  conformed  to  the  vertical 
edge  of  Westbury's  final  strip,  allowing  my 
loose  section  to  dangle  like  a  plumb-line 
several  moments  before  permitting  it  to  get 

89 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


its  death-grip  on  the  wall.  I  will  not  say 
that  this  second  attempt  was  an  entire  suc 
cess,  but  it  was  a  step  in  that  direction. 
With  a  little  smudging,  a  slight  wrinkle  or 
two,  and  a  small  torn  place,  it  would  do,  and 
I  was  really  quite  pleased  with  myself  when  I 
observed  it  from  across  the  room  and  imag 
ined  a  kindly  bureau  just  about  in  that  spot. 

I  hung  another  strip,  and  another.  Some 
went  on  very  well,  some  with  heavy  travail, 
and  with  results  that  made  me  grateful  for 
our  pictures  and  furniture.  Yet  it  became 
fascinating  work;  it  was  like  piecing  out 
some  vast  picture-puzzle,  one  that  might  be 
of  some  use  when  finished.  I  improved,  too. 
I  was  several  days  finishing  the  up-stairs, 
and  by  the  time  I  got  it  done  I  had  got 
back  some  of  the  dash  I  started  off  with. 
I  could  slap  on  the  paste  and  swing  the 
strip  to  the  wall  so  handily  that  I  was  sorry 
Elizabeth  was  not  there  to  observe  me. 

I  went  below  and  papered  the  kitchen. 
There  were  a  lot  of  little  shelves  and  cubby- 
nooks  there,  but  they  were  only  a  new  and 
pleasant  variation  to  the  picture-puzzle.  I 
did  the  small  room  off  the  kitchen,  including 

90 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  ceiling,  which  was  a  new  departure  and 
at  first  discouraging.  I  was  earning  prob 
ably  as  much  as  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day 
and  I  was  acquiring  at  least  that  much  in 
vanity  and  satisfaction,  besides  learning  a 
new  trade  which  might  come  handy  in  a 
day  of  need.  I  had  some  thought  of  pro 
posing  to  Westbury  a  partnership  in  general 
paper-hanging  and  farming,  with  possibly 
an  annex  of  antiques. 


in 


There  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  a  bee— 
a  reasonable  bee 

Matters  did  not  go  so  well  in  the  living- 
room.  It  was  not  because  the  old  walls 
were  more  irregular  there  than  elsewhere— 
I  could  negotiate  that — it  was  those  pesky 
bees.  Reshingling  the  sides  of  the  house 
had  closed  their  outlets,  and  they  had  now 
found  a  crevice  somewhere  around  the 
big  chimney  and  were  pouring  in  and  out, 
whizzing  and  buzzing  around  the  room  by 
the  hundred,  clinging  to  the  windows  in 

91 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


droves,  a  maddening  distraction  on  a  hot 
afternoon  to  a  man  with  his  head  tipped 
back,  in  the  act  of  laying  a  long,  flimsy 
xstrip  of  wall-paper  on  a  wavy,  billowy  old 
ceiling.  They  were  no  longer  vicious  and 
dangerous — they  were  only  disorganized 
and  panic-stricken.  A  hundred  times  a  day 
I  swept  quantities  of  them  from  the  win 
dows  and  released  them  to  the  open  air. 
It  was  no  use  to  shut  the  doors,  for  there  still 
were  pecks  of  them  between  the  floor  and 
ceiling,  and  these  came  pouring  out  stead 
ily,  while  those  that  I  had  dismissed  hur 
ried  back  again  as  soon  as  they  could  get 
their  breath.  I  began  to  think  we  had  met 
disaster  in  this  unexpected  quarter — that 
those  persistent  little  colonists  were  going 
to  dispossess  us  altogether. 

Old  Nat  and  I  had  tried  smoking  them 
with  sulphur,  which  had  quieted  them  tem 
porarily  while  the  men  were  shingling,  but 
it  had  in  no  way  discouraged  them.  In 
fact,  I  think  there  is  nothing  that  will  dis 
courage  a  bee  but  sudden  death,  and  that 
seems  a  pity,  for  in  his  proper  sphere  he  is 
one  of  our  most  useful  citizens. 

92 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


He  is  so  wise,  so  wonderfully  skilled  and 
patient.  I  have  read  Maeterlinck's  life  of 
him,  and  there  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for 
a  bee — a  reasonable  bee — one  that  would 
appreciate  a  little  sound  advice.  That's 
just  the  trouble — a  bee  isn't  built  that 
way.  He  is  so  smart  and  capable,  and  such 
a  wonder  in  most  things,  that  he  won't 
discuss  any  matter  quietly  and  see  where  he 
is  wrong  and  go  his  way  in  peace.  Those 
bees  thought  that,  just  because  they  had 
found  a  hole  in  the  outside  of  an  old  house, 
it  was  their  house,  and  if  anybody  had  to 
move  it  wouldn't  be  they.  I  explained  the 
situation  over  and  over  and  begged  them  to 
go  away  while  the  weather  was  still  warm 
and  the  going  good,  but  they  just  whizzed 
and  raged  around  the  rooms  and  sickened 
me  with  their  noise  and  obstinacy. 

When  Elizabeth  and  the  Joy  came  up, 
school  matters  being  arranged,  we  decided, 
among  other  things,  to  evict  those  bees. 
There  was  just  one  way  to  do  it,  Westbury 
said,  which  was  to  saw  through  the  floor 
up-stairs  and  take  them  out.  He  thought 
there  would  be  some  honey.  We  did  not 

93 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


count  much  on  that;  what  we  wanted  was 
to  be  rid  of  the  pests  forever.  I  sent  word 
to  our  carpenter,  and  Henry  Jones  came  one 
morning  with  his  saws. 

In  a  corner  of  the  upper  room  where  we 
had  heard  a  great  buzzing  he  bored  a  hole 
through  the  flinty  oak  floors.  I  had  the 
smoker  ready  and  pumped  the  sulphur 
fumes  in  pretty  freely.  Then  he  began  to 
saw.  He  had  gone  only  a  little  way  when 
he  said: 

"My  saw  is  running  in  honey." 

Sure  enough,  it  was  coated  with  the  clear 
sticky  substance,  which  certainly  did  not 
make  it  run  any  easier.  By  hard  work  he 
managed  to  cut  across  two  of  the  wide 
boards,  and  through  them  again,  adjoining 
the  next  joist.  When  he  was  ready  to  lift 
out  I  pumped  a  new  supply  of  smoke  into 
the  holes,  then  rather  gingerly  we  pried  up 
the  pieces. 

What  a  sight  it  was!  Covered  by  a 
myriad  of  stupefied  bees  was  layer  upon 
layer  of  pure  honey,  the  frightened  insects 
plunging  into  the  cells,  filling  themselves 
with  their  own  merchandise,  as  is  their 

94 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


habit  when  alarmed.  Lazarus,  a  small  col 
ored  assistant  whom  we  had  recently  ac 
quired,  peered  in  cautiously  (the  sulphur 
fumes  being  still  suggestive,  with  a  good 
many  bees  flying),  and  I  sent  him  for 
something  to  put  the  honey  in — something 
large,  I  said — a  dishpan. 

But  Elizabeth  had  no  great  faith  in  our 
bee  investigations,  or  she  may  have  been 
inclined  to  discount  Lazarus.  She  sent  a 
porcelain  dish,  which  I  filled  with  a  few 
choice  pieces. 

"Tell  her  this  is  just  a  sample,  and  to 
send  the  dishpan." 

But  still  she  thought  either  I  or  Lazarus 
was  excited,  and  sent  only  an  agate  stew- 
pan,  which  I  also  filled. 

"Take  it  down,  Lazarus,  and  tell  her  that 
we  still  need  the  dishpan." 

So  then  at  last  it  came  up,  and  we  filled 
that,  too. 

We  were  not  through,  however.  There 
was  a  heavy  buzzing  near  the  center  of  the 
room,  and  again  we  bored  and  smoked  and 
sawed,  and  presently  uncovered  another 
swarm,  with  another  surplus  stock,  this 
8  95 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


time  a  wash-boiler  full,  most  of  it  fine  and 
white,  though  some  of  the  pieces  were  dis 
colored,  showing  age.  Elizabeth  left  her 
occupations  and  came  up  to  investigate. 
Our  old  house  had  proven  a  regular  honey- 
mine.  We  had  enough  for  an  indefinite 
period,  and  some  for  the  neighbors.  I  sup 
pose  if  we  had  left  an  outside  hole  for  those 
bees  they  would  have  gone  on  multiplying 
and  eventually  would  have  packed  our  floors 
and  walls  solid  full  of  honey,  and  we  should 
have  had,  in  truth,  "the  very  sweetest  house 
in  all  the  world." 

I  confess  we  felt  sorry  for  those  poor 
bees.  A  quantity  of  them  refused  to  leave 
the  premises  and  persisted  on  squeezing 
into  the  house  if  a  door  or  window  was  left 
open.  A  clot  of  them  formed  on  an  old 
fence-post — around  their  queen,  perhaps — 
and  would  not  go  away,  though  they  knew 
quite  well  we  had  hardened  our  hearts 
against  them  and  would  not  relent.  If  I 
had  it  to  do  over  again  I  would  bring  down 
an  old  hive  made  from  a  hollow  log,  which 
we  found  up  in  the  attic,  and  put  into  it 
some  honey  and  some  comb  and  invite  them 

96 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


to  set  up  business  again  in  a  small  way. 
But  my  wounds  were  too  fresh.  They  had 
daubed  some  of  my  new  paper,  driven  me 
nearly  frantic  with  their  commotion,  and 
stung  me  in  several  localities.  The  old 
fence-post  was  quite  loose.  In  the  evening  I 
softly  lifted  it  out,  carried  it  to  a  remote 
place,  and  left  it,  just  as  any  other  heartless 
person  would  drop  an  unwelcome  kitten. 
When  I  passed  that  way  the  following  spring 
they  were  gone. 

A  last  word  about  our  papering.  To  this 
day  I  am  proud  of  the  job  and  don't  wish  to 
dismiss  it  in  any  casual  way.  I  left  our 
square  "best"  room  till  the  last;  it  made 
a  dramatic  ending. 

I  believe  I  have  not  mentioned  before 
that  I  washed  down  the  old  plaster  with  a 
solution  of  vinegar  (a  remnant  from  one  of 
Uncle  Joe's  barrels)  in  order  to  kill  the  lime, 
which,  Westbury  said,  was  bad  for  the 
sticking  qualities  of  the  paste.  Perhaps  I 
made  my  solution  a  bit  too  strong  for  the 
"  best  "-room  walls,  or  it  may  be  that  the 
plaster  there  was  different — I  don't  know. 
I  know  that  I  worked  till  nearly  midnight 

97 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


to  get  done,  Elizabeth  holding  a  pair  of 
lamps,  and  that  when  we  came  down  next 
morning  to  admire  our  beautiful  green 
walls  by  daylight,  they  were  no  longer  green 
—at  least,  not  solidly  so,  not  definitely  so. 
What  seemed  to  us  at  first  a  sorrowful 
mottled  complaint  in  yellow  had  every 
where  broken  through,  and  I  had  the  sicken 
ing  feeling  that  my  work  was  wasted  and 
must  be  done  over.  But  presently  Eliza 
beth  said,  reflectively: 

"It  isn't  so  bad  just  as  it  is!" 

And  I  said,  "Why,  no!  it's  a  kind  of  a 
pattern." 

And  then  we  both  said,  "Why,  it's  really 
artistic  and  beautiful!" 

And  so  it  was.  Over  the  dull  green  a 
large,  irregular  lacework  of  dull  yellow  had 
spread  itself,  and  the  more  we  looked  the 
better  we  liked  it.  Just  why  the  chemical 
affinity  between  plaster  and  paper  should 
produce  that  particular  effect  we  could  not 
imagine,  but  there  it  was  and  there  it 
stayed,  for  the  process  did  not  go  any 
farther.  Later  on,  when  our  furniture  and 
pictures  were  in  place,  visitors  used  to  say, 

98 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"  Wherever  did  you  get  that  wonderful 
paper  ?"  If  they  were  true  friends  and 
worthy,  we  told  them.  Otherwise  we  would 
vaguely  hint  of  a  special  pattern,  and  that 
there  was  no  more  to  be  had  of  the  kind. 


IV 


There   was  a  place  we  sometimes  visited  to 
see  the  trout 

I  suppose  about  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  life  is  novelty.  In  it  is  the  chief  charm 
of  youth  and  travel  and  honeymoons.  I  will 
not  say  it  is  the  most  valuable  thing  there 
is,  and  it  is  likely  to  be  about  the  most 
transient.  But  while  it  lasts  it  is  precious, 
and  inspiring  beyond  words. 

No  other  autumn  could  ever  be  quite  like 
that  first  one  of  our  new  possession,  none 
could  ever  have  the  halo  and  the  bloom  of 
novelty  that  made  us  revel  in  all  the  things 
we  could,  do  and  moved  us  to  undertake 
them  all.  Days  to  come  would  be  more 
peaceful  and  abundantly  satisfying,  hap 
pier,  even,  in  the  fullness  of  accomplish- 

99 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


ment,  but  never  again  would  we  know 
quite  the  thrill  that  each  day  brought 
during  our  first  golden  September  at  Brook 
Ridge. 

To  begin  with,  it  was  September,  and 
golden.  The  rains  of  August  had  ceased 
and  their  lavish  abundance  had  filled  brook 
and  river  and  left  the  world  a  garden  of 
wild  aster  and  goldenrod,  with  red  apples 
swinging  from  the  trees,  massed  umbels  of 
dark  elderberries,  and  pink  and  purple 
grapes  ripening  in  the  sun.  Our  satisfac 
tion  with  everything  was  unbounded.  A 
New  England  farm,  with  its  brook  and 
springs  and  gray  walls  and  odd  corners, 
seemed  to  us,  of  all  possessions,  the  most 
desirable.  We  took  long  walks  through 
our  quiet  woods  where  there  were  hickory 
and  chestnut  trees,  and  oaks  and  hemlocks, 
and  slender  white  birches  that  were  like 
beautiful  spirits,  and  tall  maples,  and  even 
apple-trees,  wild  seedlings,  planted  by  the 
birds,  but  thrifty  and  bearing.  We  had 
never  seen  that  in  the  West.  The  fruit 
was  not  very  tender,  but  well  flavored  and 
made  delicious  sauce. 

IOO 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"Why,  it  must  be  the  Garden  of  Eden," 
we  said,  "if  the  apple-tree  grows  wild!" 

We  carried  baskets  and  gathered  in  in 
finite  variety.  Apples,  hickory-nuts,  ber 
ries,  mushrooms — especially  mushrooms,  for 
we  were  fond  of  them  and  had  carefully  ac 
quainted  ourselves  with  the  deadly  kinds. 
Those,  by  the  way,  are  all  that  one  needs  to 
know.  All  the  others  may  be  eaten.  Some 
of  them  may  taste  like  gall  and  worm 
wood,  or  living  and  enduring  fire,  and  an 
occasional  specimen  may  make  the  experi 
menter  feel  briefly  unwell,  but  if  he  will 
acquaint  himself  with  the  virulent  amanita 
varieties,  and  shun  them,  he  will  not  die — 
not  from  poison.  I  do  not  guarantee 
against  indigestion. 

We  would  bring  home  as  many  as  seven 
teen  sorts  of  those  edible  toadstools,  beau 
tiful  things  in  creamy  white,  brown,  purple, 
yellow,  coral,  and  vivid  scarlet,  and  get  out 
our  Book  of  a  Thousand  Kinds,  and  patiently 
identify  them,  tasting  for  the  flavor  and 
sometimes  getting  a  hot  one  or  a  bitter  one, 
but  often  putting  as  many  as  a  dozen  kinds 
into  the  chafing-dish.  Even  if  the  result 

IOI 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


was  occasionally  a  bit  "woodsy"  as  to 
savor,  we  did  not  mind  much,  not  in  those 
days  of  novelty,  though  Elizabeth  did  once 
think  she  felt  a  "little  dizzy"  after  an 
unusually  large  collection,  and  I  had  a 
qualm  or  two  myself.  But  when  we  looked 
up  and  found  that  mushroom  poison  does 
not  begin  to  destroy  for  several  hours,  we 
fell  to  discussing  other  matters,  and  did  not 
remember  our  slight  inconvenience  until 
long  after  we  should  have  been  dead,  by 
the  book  limitation. 

There  was  a  gap  in  the  stone  wall  where 
we  passed  from  our  land  into  Westbury's, 
and  beyond  it  an  open  place  that  was  a 
mushroom-garden.  Green  and  purple  rus- 
sulas  grew  there  as  if  they  had  been  planted, 
beds  of  coral-hued  ' ' Tom  Thumbs' '  that  were 
like  strawberries,  and  a  big,  bitter  variety 
of  boletus,  worthless  but  beautiful,  having 
the  size  and  appearance  of  a  pie — a  mer 
ingue  pie,  well  browned.  A  path  led  to  an 
other  garden  wjiere  in  a  hidden  nook  we  one 
day  discovered  a  quantity  of  chanterelles 
that  were  like  wonderful  black  morning- 
glories.  It  was  duskily  shaded  there,  and 

102 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


through  the  flickering  green  we  noticed  a 
vivid  red  spot  that  was  like  a  flame.  We 
pushed  out  to  it  and  came  upon  a  tiny, 
silent  brook  slipping  through  a  bed  of 
cowslip  and  water-arum,  and  at  its  margin 
a  scarlet  cardinal-flower,  burning  a  star 
upon  the  afternoon. 

There  was  a  place  which  we  sometimes 
visited  to  see  the  trout.     You  crossed  the 


- 


"  bean-lot "  and  came  to  a  little  secluded 

land  where  there  were  slim  cedars  and  grass 

and  asters  and  goldenrod,  a  spot  so  still  and 

103 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


unvisited  that  it  was  like  a  valley  that  one 
might  find  in  a  dream.  Our  brook  flowed 
through  it  and  in  one  place  there  was  a 
quiet  pool  and  an  overhanging  rock.  Wil 
lows  and  alders  sheltered  it,  and  if  you 
slipped  through  without  noise  and  lay  very 
still,  you  were  pretty  sure  to  see  a  school 
of  trout,  for  it  was  their  favorite  haunt. 
Once  we  counted  twenty -two  there,  lying 
head  up-stream,  gently  fanning  their  tails 
and  white-edged  fins.  They  were  a  hand 
some  lot,  ranging  in  size  from,  eight  to 
twelve  inches,  and  we  would  not  have 
parted  with  them  for  the  cost  of  the  farm. 
The  "precious  ones"  joined  in  some  of 
these  excursions,  but  our  diversions  were  too 
tame  for  them,  as  a  rule.  Wading,  racing 
up  and  down,  tumbling  on  the  hay,  with 
now  and  then  a  book  in  the  shade, 
was  more  to  their  liking.  When  the  two 
older  ones  had  gone  to  school  and  the  Joy 
was  with  us  alone,  she  invented  plays  of  her 
own,  plays  in  which  a  capering  horse- 
that  is  to  say,  herself — had  the  star  part. 
Once  I  found  her  sitting  by  a  tub  of  water, 
sailing  a  wonderful  boat  in  it — one  that  she 
104 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


had  made  for  herself,  out  of  a  chip  and  a 
nail,  using  a  stone  for  a  hammer.  She  wore 
one  of  the  antique  bonnets  brought  down 
from  the  attic,  and  seemed  lost  in  contem 
plation  of  her  handiwork.  Without  her 
noticing,  I  made  a  photograph. 
How  it  carries  me  back,  to-day. 
T  have  mentioned  our  va 
ried  undertakings.  When  the 
wild  grapes  ripened  on 
the  roadside  walls — the 
big,  fragrant  wild  grapes 
of  New  England — we 
made  a  real  business  of 
gathering  them.  They 
were  in  endless  quantity,  three  colors — pink, 
purple,  and  white — and  their  rich  odor  be 
trayed  them.  Placing  some  stones  in  the 
brook  one  afternoon,  I  became  conscious  of  a 
thick  wave  of  that  sweet  perfume,  and,  look 
ing  up,  discovered  a  natural  trellis  of  clusters 
just  above  my  head.  I  don't  know  how  many 
bushels  we  gathered  in  all,  or  how  many 
quarts  of  jelly  and  jam  and  sweet  wine 
we  made.  I  found  in  the  attic,  which  we 
named  our  "Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  be- 
105 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


cause  it  was  provided  with  everything  we 
needed,  an  old  pair  of  "pressers,"  and 
squeezed  out  grape  juice  and  elderberry 
juice  and  blackberry  juice,  while  Elizabeth 
stirred  and  boiled  and  put  away,  for  we  were 
New  England  farmers  now,  and  were  going 
to  do  all  the  things,  and  have  preserves 
and  nuts  and  apples  laid  away  for  winter. 
How  we  worked — played,  I  mean,  for  with 
novelty  one  does  not  work,  but  becomes  a 
child  again,  and  plays.  And  the  more  toys 
we  can  find,  and  the  longer  we  can  make 
each  one  last,  the  happier  and  better  and 
younger  we  shall  be. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


There  is  compensation  even  for  moving 

N  the  ist  of  October  we  moved. 
Ah,  me!     How   easily   one 
may  dismiss  in  words  an  epic 
thing  like  that.     Yet  it   is 
better  so.  Moves,  like  earth 
quakes,  are  all  a  good  deal 
alike,  except  as  to  size  and 
the   extent   of   destruction. 
Few  care  for  the  details.     I 
still  have  an  impression  of 
two   or    three    nightmarish 
days  that  began  with  some 
attempt  at  real  packing  and   ended   with 
a  desperate  dropping  of  anything  into  any 
convenient  box  or  barrel  or  bureau  drawer, 
and  of  a  final  fevered  morning  when  two  or 
more  criminals  in  the  guise  of  moving-men 
bumped   and    scraped    our  choicest  pieces 
down  tortuous  stairways  and  slammed  them 
107 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


into  their  cavernous  vans,  leaving  on  the 
pavement  certain  unsightly,  disreputable 
articles  for  every  passer-by  to  scorn. 

It  is  true  that  this  time  we  had  a  box-car 
— we  had  never  before  risen  to  that  dignity 
—and  I  recall  a  weird  traveling  to  and  fro 
with  the  vans,  and  intervals  of  anguish 
when  I  watched  certain  precious,  and  none 
too  robust,  examples  of  the  antique  fired  al 
most  bodily  into  its  deeper  recesses.  Oh, 


well,  never  mind ;  it  came  to  an  end.  Our 
goods  arrived  at  the  Brook  Ridge  station, 
and  Westbury  and  his  teams  transported 

108 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


them — not  to  the  house,  but  to  the  barn,  for 
among  other  things  in  Brook  Ridge  we  had 
unearthed  an  old  cabinet-maker  whom  we 
had  engaged  for  the  season  to  put  us  in  order 
before  we  set  our  possessions  in  place.  He 
erected  a  bench  in  the  barn,  and  there  for  a 
month  he  glued  and  scraped  and  polished 
and  tacked,  and  as  each  piece  was  finished 
we  brought  it  in  and  tried  it  in  one  place  and 
another,  discovering  all  over  again  how 
handsome  it  was,  restored  and  polished,  and 
now  at  last  in  its  proper  setting. 

There  was  compensation  even  for  moving 
in  getting  settled  in  that  progressive  way, 
each  evening  marking  a  step  toward  com 
pletion.  When  our  low  book  shelves  were 
ranged  in  the  spaces  about  the  walls,  the 
books  wiped  and  put  into  them;  when  our 
comfortable  chairs  were  drawn  about  the 
fireplaces;  when  our  tall  clock  with  a 
shepherdess  painted  on  the  dial  had  found 
its  place  between  the  windows  and  was 
ticking  comfortably — we  felt  that  our  dream 
of  that  first  day  was  coming  true,  and  that 
the  reality  was  going  to  be  even  better  than 
the  dream. 

109 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Of  course  the  old  living-room  was  the 
best  of  all.  Its  length  and  low  ceiling  and 
the  great  fireplace  would  insure  that.  We 
had  ranged  a  row  of  blue  plates,  with  some 
of  the  ancient  things  from  the  attic,  along 
the  narrow  mantel,  and  it  somehow  seemed 
as  if  they  had  been  there  from  the  beginning. 
The  low  double  windows  were  opposite 
the  fireplace.  We  had  our  large  table  there, 
and  between  meal-times  the  Joy  liked  to 
spread  her  toys  on  it.  She  wore  her  hair 
cut  in  the  Dutch  fashion,  and  sometimes 
at  the  end  of  the  day,  as  I  sat  by  the  wan 
ing  embers  and  watched  her  moving  to  and 
fro  between  me  and  the  fading  autumn 
fields,  I  had  the  most  precious  twilight  illu 
sion  of  having  stepped  backward  at  least  a 
hundred  years. 

We  thought  our  color  scheme  good,  and 
I  suppose  there  is  really  no  better  back 
ground  for  old  mahogany  than  dull  green. 
Golden  brown  is  handsome  with  it,  and  cer 
tain  shades  of  blue,  but  there  is  something 
about  the  green  with  antique  furniture  that 
seems  literally  to  give  it  a  soul.  Never 
had  our  possessions  shown  to  such  an  ad- 
no 


ill 


Sometimes  at  the   end   oj   the  aay, 

as  I  sat  by  the  waning  embers,  and 

watched  her  moving  to  and  fro  between 

me    and    the  fading    autumn   fields 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


vantage  (no  pun  intended,  though  they  did 
shine)  and  never,  we  flattered  ourselves, 
had  the  old  house  been  more  fittingly  ap 
pointed.  With  the  pictures  and  shades  put 
up,  the  rugs  put  down,  and  the  fires  lit,  it 
seemed  to  us  just  about  perfect.  It  was  a 
jewel,  we  thought,  and  to-day,  remembering 
it,  I  think  so  still. 

II 

There  is  work  about  making  apple-butter 

Perhaps  I  am  making  it  all  sound  too 
easy  and  comfortable.  The  past  has  a  way 
of  submerging  its  sorrows.  With  a  little 
effort,  however,  I  can  still  recall  some  of 
them.  Our  transition  period  was  not  all  pic 
nic  and  poetry.  There  were  days  of  stress 
—hard,  nerve-racking  days  when  it  seemed 
that  never  in  the  wide  world  would  things 
get  into  shape — as  when,  for  instance,  the 
new  kitchen  range  arrived  and  would  not 
go  through  any  of  the  kitchen  doors;  when 
our  grandfather  clock  had  been  found  an 
inch  too  tall  for  any  of  our  rooms;  when 
in 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


our  big  fireplace  had  poured  out  smoke  until 
we  were  blind  and  asphyxiated.  Any  one 
of  these  things  would  be  irritating,  and 
coming  together,  as  they  did,  one  gloomy, 
chilly  morning,  they  had  presented  an  aspect 
almost  of  failure.  Then,  being  resolute  and 
in  good  health,  we  proceeded  to  correct 
matters.  We  stripped  the  range  for  action, 
took  out  a  sash,  and  brought  it  in  edgewise 
through  a  window.  We  mortised  down  an 
inch  into  the  flinty  oak  floor  and  let  in  the 
legs  of  the  old  clock  so  that  its  top  ornament 
would  just  clear  the  ceiling. 

The  fireplace  problem  was  more  serious. 
We  knew  that  the  chimney  was  big  enough, 
for  we  could  look  up  it  at  a  three-foot  square 
of  sky,  and  our  earlier  fires  had  given  us  no 
trouble.  We  solved  the  mystery  when  we 
threw  open  an  outside  door  to  let  out  the 
smoke.  The  smoke  did  not  go  out;  it 
rushed  back  to  the  big  fireplace  and  went 
up  the  chimney,  where  it  belonged.  We 
understood,  then — in  the  old  days  air  had 
poured  in  through  a  hundred  cracks  and 
crevices.  Now  we  had  tightened  our  walls 
and  windows  until  the  big  chimney  could 

112 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


no  longer  get  its  breath.  It  must  have  a 
vent,  an  air-supply  which  must  come  from 
the  outside,  yet  not  through  the  room. 

Here  was  a  chance  for  invention.  I 
went  down  cellar  to  reflect  and  investigate. 
I  decided  that  a  stove-pipe  could  be  carried 
from  a  small  cellar  window  to  the  old 
chimney  base,  and  by  prying  up  the  thick 
stone  hearth  we  could  excavate  beneath  it 
a  passage  which  would  admit  the  pipe  to 
one  end  of  the  fireplace,  where  it  could  be 
covered  and  made  sightly  by  a  register. 
Old  Pop  came  with  his  crowbar  and  pick, 
and  Westbury  brought  the  galvanized  pipe 
and  the  grating.  It  was  quite  a  strenuous 
job  while  it  lasted,  but  it  was  the  salvation 
of  our  big  fireplace,  and  I  was  so  proud  of 
the  result  that  I  did  not  greatly  mind  the 
mashed  foot  I  got  through  Old  Pop's  allow 
ing  the  thousand-pound  stone  hearth  to  rest 
on  it  while  he  attended  to  another  matter. 

I  have  given  the  details  of  this  non- 
smoke  device  because  any  one  buying  and 
repairing  an  old  house  is  likely  to  be 
smoked  out  and  might  not  immediately 
stumble  upon  the  simple  remedy.  I  know 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


when  later,  at  the  club,  I  explained  it  to  an 
architectural  friend,  he  confessed  that  the 
notion  had  not  occurred  to  him,  adding, 
with  some  shame,  that  he  had  more  than 
once  left  a  considerable  crack  under  a  door 
as  an  air-supply.  Imagine! 

So  these  troubles  passed,  and  others  in 
kind  and  variety.  Those  were  busy  days. 
We  were  doing  so  many  things,  we  hardly 
had  time  to  enjoy  the  fall  scenery,  the 
second  stage  of  it,  as  it  were,  when  the 
goldenrod  and  queen's  -  lace  -  handkerchief 
were  gone,  the  blue  wild  asters  fading,  and 
leaves  beginning  to  fall,  though  the  hill 
tops  were  still  ablaze  with  crimson  and  gold. 
Once  we  stole  an  afternoon  and  climbed  a 
ridge  that  looked  across  a  valley  to  other 
ridges  swept  by  the  flame  of  autumn.  It 
was  really  our  first  wide  vision  of  the 
gorgeous  fall  colorings  of  New  England,  and 
they  are  not  surpassed,  I  think,  anywhere 
this  side  of  heaven. 

We   gathered    our   apples.     We   had   a 

small  orchard  of  red  Baldwins  across  the 

brook,  and  some  old,  scattering  trees  such 

as  you  will  find  on  every  New  England 

114 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


farm.  These  last  were  very  ancient,  and 
of  varieties  unknown  to-day.  One,  badly 
broken  by  the  wind,  we  cut,  and  its  rings 
gave  it  one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Put 
nam's  soldiers  could  have  hooked  apples 
from  that  tree,  and  probably  did  so,  for  it 
was  not  in  plain  view  of  the  house. 

We  put  the  Baldwins  away  and  made 
cider  of  the  others,  it  being  now  the  right 
moment,  when  there  was  a  tang  of  frost  in 
the  morning  air.  We  picked  up  enough  to 
fill  both  of  Uncle  Joe's  cider-barrels,  West- 
bury  and  I  hauled  them  to  the  mill,  and 
the  next  day  Elizabeth  was  boiling  down 
the  sweet  juice  into  apple-butter,  which  is 
one  of  the  best  things  in  the  world. 

There  is  work  about  making  apple-but 
ter.  It  is  not  just  a  simple  matter  of  put 
ting  on  some  juice  and  letting  it  boil. 
Apples  must  go  into  it,  too,  a  great  many 
of  them,  and  those  apples  must  be  peeled 
and  sliced,  and  stirred  and  stirred  eternally. 
And  then  you  will  find  that  you  need  more 
apples,  more  peeling  and  slicing,  and  more 
stirring  and  stirring,  oh  yes,  indeed.  Eliza 
beth  stirred,  I  stirred,  and  Lazarus,  our 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


small  colored  vassal,  stirred.  I  said  if  I  had 
time  I  would  invent  an  apple-butter  ma 
chine,  and  Elizabeth  declared  she  would 
never  undertake  such  a  job  again,  never  in 
the  world !  But  that  was  mere  momentary 
rebellion.  When  it  was  all  spiced  and  done 
and  some  of  it  spread  on  slices  of  fresh 
bread  and  butter,  discontent  and  weariness 
passed,  and  next  day  she  and  Lazarus  were 
making  pickles  and  catsup  and  apple  jelly, 
while  Old  Pop  and  I  were  hauling  all  the 
flat  stones  we  could  find  and  paving  the 
wide  space  between  the  house  and  the  stone 
curb  which  already  we  had  built  around  the 
well.  Oh,  there  is  plenty  to  do  when  one  has 
bought  an  old  farm  and  wants  to  have  all  the 
good  things,  and  the  livable  things;  and 
October  is  the  time  to  do  them,  when  the 
mornings  are  brisk,  and  the  days  are  balmy, 
and  evening  brings  solace  by  the  open  fire. 

in 

Lazarus' s  downfall  was  a  matter  of  pigs 

It  was  Lazarus,  I  think,  who  most  enjoyed 
the  open  fire.      Stretched   full   length  on 
116 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  hearth,  flat  on  his  stomach,  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  baking  himself,  he  might  have 
been  one  of  his  own  ancestors  of  the  African 
forest,  for  he  was  desperately  black,  and 
true  to  type.  A  runty  little  spindle-legged 
darky  of  thirteen,  Lazarus  had  come  to  us 
second-hand,  so  to  speak,  from  the  county 
home.  A  family  in  the  neighborhood  was 
breaking  up,  and  Lazarus's  temporary  adop 
tion  in  the  household  was  at  an  end.  He 
had  come  on  an  errand  one  evening,  and 
our  interview  then  had  led  to  his  being 
transferred  to  our  account. 

"I  goin'  away  nex'  week,"  he  said. 

11  Where  are  you  going,  Lazarus?" 

"Back  to  de  home,  where  I  come  from." 

"What  do  you  get  for  your  work  where 
you  are  now?" 

"Boa'd  and  clo's  an'  whatever  dey  min' 
to  give." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"Bring  wood,  wash  dishes,  and  whatever 
dey  wants  me  to." 

"How  would  you  like  to  come  up  here 
for  a  while?" 

He  had  his  eye  on  my  target-rifle  as  he 
117 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


replied,  "Yassah,  I'd  like  it — what  sort  o' 
gun  yo'  got?" 

I  explained  my  firearm  to  him  and  let 
him  handle  it.  His  willingness  to  come 
grew. 

"Are  you  a  pretty  good  boy,  Lazarus?" 

"Oh,  yassah — is — is  yo'  goin'  to  le'  me 
shoot  yo'  gun  ef  I  come?" 

"Very  likely,  but  never  mind  that  now. 
What  happens  if  you're  not  good?" 

He  eyed  me  rather  furtively.  ' '  De  rule  is 
yo'  cain't  whip,"  he  said.  "You  kin  only 
send  back  to  de  home." 

We  agreed  on  these  terms,  and  Lazarus 
arrived  the  day  after  the  auction  that 
closed  out  his  former  employers.  As  an 
aside  I  may  mention  that  Old  Pop  laid  off  a 
day  to  attend  the  said  auction,  and  bought 
a  pink  chenille  portiere  and  a  Japanese 
screen. 

I  want  to  be  fair  to  Lazarus,  and  I  con 
fess,  before  going  farther,  that  I  think  we 
did  not  rate  him  at  his  worth.  He  had  ar 
tistic  value — he  was  good  literary  material. 
I  feel  certain  of  that  now,  and  I  think 
I  vaguely  realized  it  at  the  time.  But  I 
118 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


was  not  at  the  moment  doing  anything  in 
color,  and  for  other  purposes  he  was  not 
convincing.  His  dish-washing  was  far  from 
brilliant  and  his  sweeping  was  a  mess.  Also, 
his  appetite  for  bringing  wood  had  grown 
dull.  There  is  an  old  saying  which  closely 
associates  a  colored  person  with  a  wood 
pile,  but  our  particular  Senegambian  was 
not  of  that  variety.  The  only  time  he 
really  cared  for  wood  was  when  it  was  blaz 
ing  in  the  big  fireplace,  and  the  picture  he 
made  in  front  of  it  was  about  all  that  we 
thought  valuable.  It  is  true  that  he  made 
a  good  audience  and  would  accompany  me 
to  the  fuel-heap  and  openly  admire  and 
praise  my  strength  in  handling  the  big 
logs,  but  his  own  gifts  lay  elsewhere.  He 
approved  of  my  gun  and  would  have  spent 
whole  days  firing  it  into  the  sky  or  the  tree- 
tops,  or  at  the  barn  or  at  birds,  or  into  an 
expansive  random,  to  the  general  danger  of 
the  neighborhood,  if  I  had  let  him.  He  had 
a  taste  for  jewelry,  especially  for  my  scarf- 
pins.  When  he  saw  one  loosely  lying  about 
he  carefully  laid  it  away  to  prevent  accident, 
using  a  very  private  little  box  he  had,  as  a 
119 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


proper  and  safe  place  for  it.  When  he  dis 
cussed  this  matter  he  told  me  quite  casually 
that  he  spected  something  would  happen  to 
him  some  day,  as  his  father  and  uncle,  and 
I  think  he  said  his  grandfather,  were  at  the 
moment  in  the  penitentiary.  He  was  in 
clined  to  exaggerate  and  may  have  been 
boasting,  but  I  think  his  ancestry  was  of 
that  turn. 

Lazarus's  own  chief  treasure  was  a  clock. 
I  do  not  recall  now  where  he  said  it  ca*me 
from,  but  he  valued  it  highly.  It  was  a 
round  tin  clock,  with  an  alarm  attachment. 
He  kept  it  by  his  bed,  and  the  alarm  was 
his  especial  joy.  He  loved  the  sound  of  it, 
I  do  not  know  why.  Perhaps  it  echoed  some 
shrill,  raucous  cry  of  the  jungle  that  had 
stirred  his  ancestors,  and  something  heredi 
tary  in  him  still  answered  to  it.  He  never 
seemed  to  realize  that  it  was  attached  to  the 
clock  for  any  special  purpose,  such  as  rous 
ing  him  to  the  affairs  of  the  day.  To  him  it 
was  music,  inspiration,  even  solace.  When 
its  strident  concatenation  of  sounds  smote 
the  morning  air  Lazarus  would  let  it  rave  on 
interminably,  probably  hugging  himself  with 

120 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  fierce  joy  of  it,  lulled  by  its  final  notes 
to  a  relapse  of  dreams.  It  did  not  on  any 
occasion  stimulate  him  to  rise  and  dress. 
That  was  a  more  strenuous  matter — one 
requiring  at  times  physical  encouragement 
on  my  part.  Had  his  bulk  been  in  propor 
tion  to  his  trance,  I  should  have  needed  a 
block  and  tackle  and  a  derrick  to  raise  this 
later  Lazarus. 

Lazarus 's  downfall  was  a  matter  of  pigs. 
We  did  not  expect  to  embark  in  pig  culture 
when  we  settled  at  Brook  Ridge,  but  West- 
bury  encouraged  the  notion,  and  our  faith 
in  Westbury  was  strong.  He  said  that 
pigs  had  a  passion  for  dish-water  and  gar 
bage,  and  that  our  kitchen  surplus,  mod 
estly  supplemented  with  " shorts,"  would 
maintain  a  side-line  of  two  pigs,  which 
would  grow  into  three-hundred-pounders 
and  fill  up  Uncle  Joe's  pork  and  ham  bar 
rels  by  the  end  of  another  season. 

The  idea  was  alluring.  A  neighbor  had 
small  pigs  for  sale,  and  I  ordered  a  pair. 
There  was  an  old  pen  near  the  barn,  and  I 
spent  a  day  setting  it  in  order  for  our 
guests.  I  repaired  the  outlets,  swept  it, 


121 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  put  in  nice  clean  hay.  I  built  a  yard 
easy  of  access  from  the  pen,  and  installed 
a  generous  and  even  handsome  trough. 
Westbury  said  our  preparations  were  quite 
complete.  I  could  see  that  our  pigs  also 
approved  of  it.  They  capered  about,  oof- 
oofing,  and  enjoyed  their  trough  and  con 
tents.  True,  their  manners  left  something 
to  be  desired,  but  that  is  often  the  case 
with  the  young. 

What  round,  cunning,  funny  little  things 
they  were!  We  named  them  Hans  and 
Gretel,  and  were  tempted  to  take  them  into 
the  house,  as  pets.  We  might  have  done 
so,  only  that  I  remembered  the  story  of  the 
Arab  who  invited  his  camel  to  put  his  head 
in  the  tent.  I  had  a  dim  suspicion  that 
those  two  pigs  would  own  the  house  pres 
ently,  and  that  we  should  have  no  place  to 
go  but  the  pen.  Lazarus  was  fascinated 
by  them.  He  hung  over  the  side  of  their 
private  grounds  and  wanted  to  carry  them 
refreshments  constantly. 

"Dem  cert'ney  make  mighty  fine  shotes 
by  spring,"  he  announced  to  everybody  that 
came  along,  "an'  by  killin'-time  dey  grow 

122 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


as  big  as  dat  barn.     I  gwine  to  feed  'em 
all  day  an'  see  how  fat  dey  gits." 

" You're  elected,  Lazarus,"  I  said.    "It's 
your  job. 
You  look 
after 
Hans 
and 
Gretel 

and  we'll  look 
after  you.' 

"Yof  des 
watch  'em 
grow,"  said 
Lazarus. 

For  a  while 
we  did.  We 
went  out 
nearly  every 
day  to  look  at 
our  prospec 
tive  ham  and 
bacon  supply,  and  it  did  seem  to  be  com 
ing  along.  Then  I  had  some  special  work 
which  took  me  away  for  a  fortnight,  and 
concurrently  a  bad  spell  of  weather  set  in. 
123 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Elizabeth,  occupied  with  the  hundred  sup 
plementary  details  of  getting  established, 
and  general  domestic  duties,  could  not  give 
Hans  and  Gretel  close  personal  attention, 
and  they  fell  as  a  monopoly  to  Lazarus. 
With  his  passion  for  pigs,  she  thought  he 
might  overfeed  them,  but  as  she  had  never 
heard  of  any  fatalities  in  that  direction 
he  was  not  restrained. 

But  it  may  be  this  idea  somehow  got  hold 
of  Lazarus.  I  came  home  one  evening  and 
asked  about  the  pigs.  Elizabeth  was  doubt 
ful.  She  had  been  out  that  day  to  look 
at  them  and  was  not  encouraged  by  their 
appearance.  She  thought  they  had  grown 
somewhat — in  length.  When  I  inspected 
them  next  morning,  I  thought  so,  too.  I 
said  that  Hans  and  Gretel  were  no  longer 
pigs — they  were  turning  into  ant-eaters. 
Their  bodies  appeared  to  have  doubled  in 
length  and  halved  in  bulk.  Their  pudgy 
noses  had  become  beaks.  I  was  reminded 
of  certain  wild,  low-bred  pigs  which  I  had 
seen  splitting  the  hazel-brush  of  the  West, 
the  kind  that  Bill  Nye  once  pictured  as 
outrunning  the  fast  mail.  I  said  I  feared 
124 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


our  kitchen  by-product  was  not  rich  enough 
for  Hans  and  Gretel.  Possibly  that  was 
true.  Still,  it,  would  have  been  better  than 
nothing,,  which  it  appeared  was  chiefly 
what  those  poor  porkers  had  been  living  on. 

Lazarus's  love  had  waned  and  died.  On 
chilly,  stormy  evenings  it  had  been  easier 
to  fling  the  contents  of  his  pail  and  pan 
out  back  of  the  wood-house  than  to  carry 
them  several  times  farther  to  the  pen,  while 
the  supplementary  "shorts "  had  been  short 
ened  unduly  for  Hans  and  Gretel.  The 
physical  evidence  was  all  against  Lazarus— 
the  fascinations  of  the  big  open  fire  had 
won  him;  he  had  been  untrue  to  the  pigs. 
When  he  appeared,  they  charged  him  in 
chorus  with  his  perfidy,  and  he  could  frame 
no  adequate  reply.  Westbury  came,  and 
I  persuaded  him  to  take  them  at  a  reduc 
tion,  and  threw  in  Uncle  Joe's  pork  and 
ham  barrels.  I  said  we  wanted  Hans  and 
Gretel  to  have  a  good  home — that  we  had 
not  been  worthy  of  them. 

They  found  it  at  Westbury 's.    There  they 
were  in  a  sort  of  heaven.     When  I  saw  them 
at  the  end  of  another  two  weeks  they  were 
10  125 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


again  unrecognizable — they  were  once  more 
pigs. 

We  parted  with  Lazarus  about  the  same 
time.  Our  regime  was  not  suited  to  his 
needs.  It  was  a  pity.  With  his  gifts,  the 
right  people  might  have  modeled  him  into  a 
politician,  or  something,  but  we  couldn't. 
We  had  neither  the  equipment  nor  the  time. 
Nor,  according  to  agreement,  could  we  ad 
minister  that  discipline  which,  from  our  old- 
fashioned  point  of  view,  he  sometimes  seemed 
to  require.  We  could  only  "send  back  to 
de  home."  Perhaps  to-day  he  is  "some 
where  in  France,"  making  a  good  soldier.  I 
hope  so. 

IV 

Westbury  had  advised  against  wheat 

But  if  our  venture  in  pig  culture  had  not 
been  an  entire  success,  our  agriculture 
gave  better  promise.  Our  rye  and  grass 
seed  had  come  up  abundantly,  and  by  No 
vember  the  fields,  viewed  from  a  little  dis 
tance,  were  a  mass  of  vivid  green.  There 
is  something  approaching  a  thrill  in  seeing 
the  seed  of  your  own  sowing  actually  break 
126 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


ground  and  spring  up  and  wax  strong  with 
promise.  You  seem  somehow  to  have  had 
a  hand  in  the  ancient  miracle  of  life. 

Our  rye  had  such  a  sturdy  look  that  I 
said  it  was  pretty  sure  to  turn  out  some 
thing  fancy  in  the  way  of  grain,  and  that  we 
could  probably  sell  it  as  "seed"  rye,  which 
aways  brought  a  better  price  than  the 
regular  crop.  Then,  as  the  idea  expanded, 
I  said  that  with  our  few  acres  we  could  cul 
tivate  intensively  and  raise  seed  crops  en 
tirely.  That  would  be  something  really 
aristocratic  in  the  farming  line.  We  would 
begin  with  seed  rye  and  wheat,  of  which 
latter  grain  I  had  put  in  a  modest  sowing. 
Next  year  we  would  go  in  for  seed  potatoes, 
oats,  corn,  and  the  like.  We  could  have  a 
neat  sign  on  the  stone  wall  in  front,  an 
nouncing  our  line  of  goods.  Very  likely 
buyers  would  come  from  a  considerable  dis 
tance  for  them — I  had  myself  driven  seven 
miles  with  Westbury  for  the  seed  rye.  A 
business  like  that  would  grow.  We  could 
go  in  for  new  varieties  of  things,  and  in  time 
set  up  a  shipping-station,  with  a  packing 
house  and  a  bookkeeper.  No  doubt  Hen- 
127 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


derson  and  Hiram  Sibley  and  Ferry  and 
those  other  seed  magnates  had  begun  in 
some  such  modest  way. 

I  don't  think  Elizabeth  responded  en 
tirely  to  this  particular  enthusiasm,  and  I 
could  see  that  she  was  doubtful  about  the 
sign  in  front,  but  on  a  winy,  windless  No 
vember  day,  warmed  by  a  mellow  sun,  all 
things  seem  possible,  and  she  graciously  ad 
mitted  that  one  never  could  tell — that 
stranger  things  had  happened.  Then  we 
came  to  our  small  wheat -field,  and  the  new 
seed  enthusiasm  received  a  slight  check. 
Westbury  had  advised  against  wheat.  He 
said  it  did  not  do  well  in  that  section.  This, 
I  had  insisted,  must  be  a  superstition,  and 
I  had  gone  to  considerable  expense  to  have 
the  ground  properly  prepared,  and  to  ob 
tain  the  best  seed. 

The  result,  as  it  appeared  now,  was  not 
promising.  Here  and  there  a  spindling 
blade  had  come  through,  and  some  of  those 
seemed  about  to  turn  into  grass.  I  do  not 
know  why  wheat  acts  like  that  in  Connec 
ticut.  I  did  not  follow  up  the  scientific 
phases  of  the  case,  but  I  confided  to  Eliza- 

128 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


beth  that  perhaps,  after  all,  we  would  not 
announce  "Seed  Wheat"  on  the  neat  sign 
planned  for  the  outer  wall. 

Late  October  winds  had  changed  the  as 
pect  of  our  world.  Our  woods  were  no 
longer  deep,  vast,  and  mysterious.  We 
could  see  straight  through  them  and  read 
their  most  hidden  secrets.  We  discovered 
one  day,  what  we  had  never  suspected,  that 
at  one  place  our  brook  turned  and  came 
back  almost  to  the  road.  All  that  summer 
it  had  slipped  silently  through  that  brushy 
corner  which  for  some  reason  we  had  never 
penetrated.  We  discovered,  too,  a  little  to 
one  side  of  our  former  excursions,  a  rocky 
acclivity,  a  place  of  pretty  hemlock-trees 
and  seclusion — a  spot  for  a  summer  tent. 

There  were  not  many  mushrooms  any 
more,  »but  we  gathered  gay  red  berries  for 
decoration,  bunches  of  late  fern,  sprays  of 
bittersweet;  we  raked  over  the  leaves  for 
nuts,  and  sometimes  found  bits  of  spicy 
wintergreen  or  checkerberry,  the  kind  that 
always  flavored  old-fashioned  lozenges 
which  our  grandmothers  bought  in  little 
rolls  for  a  penny,  on  the  way  to  school. 

129 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


You  may  guess  that  this  was  pleasant  play 
to  us  who  for  ten  years  had  known  only  city 
or  suburban  life  at  this  season,  and  not  the 
least  pleasant  part  of  it  was  the  quiet  noise 
the  leaves  made  as  we  strode  through  them, 
the  fruis-sas-se-ar,  as  the  French  of  the 
Provence  call  it,  and  the  word  as  they  speak 
it  conveys  the  sound.  Astride  a  stick  horse, 
of  which  on  our  new  back  porch  she  kept  a 
full  stable,  the  Joy  went  racing  this  way  and 
that,  kicking  high  the  loose  brown  drift  of 
summer,  stirred  to  a  sort  of  ecstasy  by  its 
pleasant  noise  and  the  spicy  autumn  air. 

The  November  woods  had  fewer  voices 
than  those  of  the  earlier  season,  but  there  was 
more  visible  life .  Many  of  the  birds  remained , 
and  they  could  no  longer  hide  so  easily.  A 
hawk  or  an  owl  on  a  bare  bough  was  sharply 
outlined.  Rabbits  darted  among  the  trees, 
or  stood  erect,  staring  at  us  with  questioning 
eyes.  Squirrels  scampering  over  the.  limbs 
gave  exhibitions  of  acrobatic  skill.  There 
were  two  kinds  of  squirrels — the  fat  gray 
ones,  of  which  there  were  not  many,  and  the 
venomous  little  red  ones,  of  which  there 
seemed  an  overproduction.  They  were  cute 

130 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


little  wretches,  but  we  did  not  care  for  them. 
They  were  pugnacious  pirates ;  they  robbed 
their  unmilitant  gray  relative  and  chased 
him  from  the  premises.  Earlier  in  the  season 
they  had  thrown  down  quantities  of  green 
nuts  to  be  wasted,  and  we  were  told  they 
robbed  birds'  nests,  not  only  of  their  eggs, 
but  of  their  young.  Those  red  rovers  had 
no  food  value,  or  they  would  have  been 
fewer.  They  were  a  mere  furry  skin  drawn 
over  a  bunch  of  wires  and  strings,  and  not 
worth  a  charge  of  powder. 


Deer — wild  deer — on  our  own  farm! 

Animal  life  is  still  plentiful  in  New 
England — far  more  so  than  in  the  newer 
states  of  the  Middle  West.  With  the  de 
crease  of  population  in  many  districts  the 
wild  things  have  wandered  back  to  their 
old  haunts.  They  are  not  very  persistently 
hunted,  and  some  of  them,  like  the  deer,  are 
protected.  Now  and  again  in  our  walks 
we  saw  a  fox,  wary  and  silent-footed,  and 
often  on  sharp  nights,  on 'the  hill  above  the 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


house,  one  barked  anxiously  at  the  moon. 
At  least  that  is  the  poetic  form,  though  I 
really  think  he  was  barking  for  the  same 
reason  that  I  often  sing  when  others  of  the 
family  are  not  present.     The  others  claim 
they  do  not  care  for  it — I  often  wonder  why. 
I  suppose  that  fox's  family  was  the  same 
way,  so  he  went  out  there  alone  in  a  dark, 
safe  place  to  enjoy  his  music  unrestrained. 
Yet  no  place  seems  entirely  safe  when  one 
wants  to  sing,  and  I  fear  something  hap 
pened  to  that  fox,  for  by  and  by  we  did  not 
hear  him  any  more.     Very  likely  one  of  his 
relatives  crept  up  on  him  with  a  brick.    We 
were  sorry,  for  we  had  learned  to  like  his 
music — it  gave  us  a  wild,  primeval  feeling. 
I  think  there  were  no  wolves  or  bears 
in    our    immediate    neighborhood,    though 
there  came  reports  of  them,  now  and  then- 
exaggerated,    I   dare   say — from  adjoining 
ridges.     The  nearest  thing  we  had  to  bears 
were   some   very   fat   and   friendly   wood- 
chucks,  who  at  a  little  distance,  sitting  on 
their    haunches,    looked    very    much    like 
small  grizzlies.     They  dug  their  holes  a  few 
yards  from  the  house  and  sometimes  came 

132 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


quite  to  the  back  door,  probably  intending 
to  call,  but  when  we  approached  them  their 
courage  failed  and  they  went ' '  galumphing ' ' 
back  to  their  houses.  There  they  would  sit 
up  for  a  moment,  staring  at  us,  then,  if  we 
approached  suddenly,  would  dive  to  lower 
recesses.  I  explained  to  the  Joy  that  they 
most  likely  had  cozy  little  houses  down 
there,  with  chairs  and  tables  and  a  nice 
stove  to  cook  their  food  things  on.  She  was 
sure  it  was  all  true,  except  about  the  stove, 
which  seemed  doubtful,  because  no  smoke 
ever  came  from  their  chimneys. 

Most  of  the  animals  were  friendly  to  us, 
and  I  think  made  our  house  a  sort  of  center. 
I  remember  one  pleasant  Sunday  afternoon, 
when  we  were  sitting  outside,  we  noticed 
simultaneously  two  woodchucks  playing  in 
the  field  just  across  the  road;  a  red  squirrel 
pursuing  a  gray  one  along  our  stone  wall, 
almost  within  arm's-reach;  a  blue  heron 
among  the  willows  by  the  brook,  probably 
prospecting  for  trout;  some  bob-whites 
running  along  by  the  roadside ;  while  in  the 
woods  just  beyond  a  partridge  was  drum 
ming  up  further  recruits  for  the  exhibition. 
133 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


The  deer  did  not  call  as  soon  as  the  others. 
They  were  reserved  and  aristocratic  and 
would  seem  to  have  looked  us  over  a  good 
while  before  they  accepted  us.  We  fre 
quently  saw  their  tracks,  and  hoped  for  one 
of  the  glimpses  reported  by  our  neighbors. 

It  came  one  morning,  very  early.  A  cow 
in  an  adjoining  field  was  making  an  unusual 
sound.  Elizabeth  looked  out  and  beckoned 
me  to  the  window.  There  they  were,  at 
last !  two  reddish-tan,  shy  creatures — a  doe 
and  a  half -grown  fawn — stepping  mincingly 
down  to  the  brook  to  drink.  We  could  have 
hugged  ourselves  with  the  delight  of  it- 
deer — wild  deer — on  our  own  farm,  drinking 
from  our  own  brook,  here  in  this  old,  old  land ! 

I  wonder  if  they  heard  us,  or  perhaps 
sensed  us.  Or  they  may  not  have  liked  the 
noise  of  greeting,  or  protest,  made  by  the 
neighbor's  cow.  Whatever  the  reason,  they 
suddenly  threw  up  their  heads,  seemed  to 
look  straight  at  us,  turned  lightly,  and  sim 
ply  floated  away.  What  I  mean  by  that  is 
that  their  movement  was  not  like  that  of  any 
other  animal,  or  like  a  bird's — it  suggested 
thistledown.  They  drifted  over  the  stone 

134 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


wall  and  clumps  of  bushes  without  haste 
and  seemingly  without  weight.  It  was  as 
if  we  had  seen  phantoms  of  the  dawn. 

We  saw  them  often,  after  that.  Some 
times  at  evening  they  grazed  in  our  lower 
meadow.  Once,  three  of  them  in  full  day 
light  crossed  the  upland  just  above  the 
house.  They  were  not  fifty  yards  away, 
moving  deliberately,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left. 

We  felt  the  honor  of  it — they  had  ad 
mitted  us  to  their  charmed  circle. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


But  Sarah  was  biding  her  time 

HAVE  not  mentioned,  I  think,  a 
small  building  that,  when  we 
came,  stood  just  across  the  road 
from  our  house — a  rather  long, 
low  structure  with  sliding  win 
dows,  called  "the  shop/'  Red 
raspberries  of  a  large,  sweet  variety  were 
ripening  about  it,  and  within  was  a  short  box 
counter,  a  shoemaker's  work-bench,  a  cut 
ting-board,  a  great  bag  of  wooden  shoe-pegs, 
and  a  quantity  of  leather  scraps,  for  it  had,  in 
fact,  been  a  shop  during  the  two  generations 
preceding  our  ownership.  Before  that  it  ap 
peared  to  have  served  as  a  sort  of  office  for 
Captain  Ben  Meeker,  who  also  had  been 
not  merely  a  farmer,  as  certain  records 
proved.  Captain  Ben  may  have  built  the 
shop,  though  I  think  it  wa3  older,  for  when 
we  examined  the  picturesque  little  building, 
with  a  view  to  restoration,  it  proved  to  be 
136 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


too  far  gone — too  much  a  structure  of  decay. 
So  we  tore  down  "the  shop/*  and,  incident 
ally,  Old  Pop,  who  did  the  tearing,  found  a 
Revolutionary  bayonet  in  the  loft;  also  a 
more  recent,  and  particularly  hot,  hornets' 


nest  which  caused  him  to  leap  through  the 
window  and  spring  into  the  air  several  times 
on  the  way  to  the  bushes  by  the  brook. 
But  that  is  another  story.  We  have  al 
ready  had  the  bee  history;  hornets  would 
be  in  the  nature  of  a  repetition. 
137 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


We  found  something  of  still  greater  in 
terest  in  the  old  shop.  One  day,  digging 
over  the  leather  scraps,  we  uncovered  the 
records  above  mentioned — that  is  to  say, 
the  old  account-books  of  Captain  Ben 
Meeker  and  the  two  generations  of  shoe 
makers  who  had  followed  him.  These 
ancient  folios,  stoutly  made  and  legibly 
written,  correlate  a  good  deal  of  Brook 
Ridge  history  for  a  hundred  years.  The 
names  of  the  dead  are  there,  and  the  items 
of  their  forgotten  activities. 

From  Westbury  and  others  we  already 
knew  that  Benjamin  Meeker  and  Sarah, 
his  wife,  had  occupied  our  house  at  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century — young  mar 
ried  folks  then — and  that  there  had  been 
a  little  girl  (owner  of  the  small  brass-nailed 
trunk,  maybe)  who  in  due  time  had  grown 
up  and  married  the  young  shoemaker,  Eli 
Brayton,  of  "distant  parts,"  he  being  from 
eastern  New  York,  as  much  as  fifty  miles 
away.  Brayton  had  remained  in  the  fam 
ily,  set  up  his  bench  in  one  end  of  the 
building  across  the  road,  and  there  for  a 
generation  made  the  boots  of  the  country- 
138 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


side,  followed  in  the  trade  by  his  son,  the 
" Uncle  Joe"  who  at  eighty-five  had  laid 
down  the  hammer  and  the  last  a  year  prior 
to  our  coming.  This  was  good  history  in 
outline,  and  Westbury  had  supplied  episodes, 
here  and  there,  embellished  in  his  improving 
fashion.  The  old  books  came  now  as  a 
supplement — an  extension  course,  as  it  were, 
in  the  history  of  Captain  Ben  and  his 
successors. 

While  not  recorded,  we  may  assume  that 
Captain  Ben  belonged  to  the  militia,  hence 
his  title.  That  he  had  another  official  posi 
tion  we  learn  from  certain  items  of  entry: 

To  serving  one  summon  on  S.  Davis  3  shillin 
To  serving  one  tachment  on  J.  Pillow  2  shillin 
To  fees:  execushun  Eli  Sherwood  2  shillin  6  pnc. 

Evidently  a  constable  or  deputy  sheriff, 
and  I  think  we  may  assume  that  the  last  item 
records  a  process,  and  not  a  performance. 
The  fees  are  reassuring.  Eli  could  hardly 
have  been  dismissed  mortally  for  two  and  six. 

Captain  Ben  had  still  other  activities. 
He  owned  teams  for  hire;  he  dealt  in  live 
stock;  in  addition  to  his  farm  he  owned  a 
139 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


sawmill  on  the  brook;  he  even  went  out  at 
day's  labor — certainly  a  busy  man,  requiring 
carefully  kept  accounts,  and  an  office. 

The  accounts  begin  in  1797  and  are 
sometimes  kept  in  dollars  and  cents,  some 
times  in  the  English  fashion,  as  above. 
Sometimes  the  charges  are  made  in  one 
form,  the  credits  in  another.  It  was  just  as 
he  got  started,  I  suppose,  both  moneys  being 
in  about  equal  circulation. 

Captain  Ben's  spelling  is  interesting.  He 
was  by  no  means  illiterate.  His  writing  is  trim, 
his  accounts  in  good  form  and  correctly  fig 
ured.  But  it  was  more  a  fashion  in  that  day 
to  spell  as  pronounced,  and  his  orthography 
gives  us  a  personal  sense  of  the  period. 

"  To  plowin  garding  ...  2  shillin."  You  can 
almost  hear  him  say  that,  while  "To  haulin 
stun''  likewise  carries  the  fine  old  flavor. 

We  have  heard  much  of  the  "good  old 
times  when  things  were  cheap,"  but  Cap 
tain  Ben's  book  proves  that  not  all  com 
modities  were  cheap  in  his  day.  Calico, 
for  instance,  is  set  down  at  three  and  six 
a  yard — that  is,  eighty-five  cents.  Hand 
kerchiefs  at  two  shillings  thrippence  each, 
140 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


sugar  at  a  shilling  per  pound,  which  is  more 
than  double  our  war-time  prices.  It  is  not 
well  to  complain,  even  to-day,  remember 
ing  those  rates,  especially  when  we  note 
that  in  1805  Captain  Ben's  labor  brought 
him  only  four  shillings  a  day  (six  with 
team),  and  his  sawing,  in  small  lots,  but  a 
trifle.  Labor  was,  in  fact,  cheap  at  that 
period;  also — unfortunately  for  Captain 
Ben — rum  and  brandy. 

The  book  does  not  say  where  Ezekial 
Jackson  kept  his  general  store,  but  that  was 
where  Captain  Ben  dealt,  and  his  items  of 
purchase  are  faithfully  set  down.  A  good 
many  men  " swear  off"  on  the  New  Year, 
but  Captain  Ben  didn't.  He  bought  a 
"decantur,"  price  two  and  six  (ah  me!  it 
would  be  an  antique,  now),  and  promptly 
started  in  having  it  filled.  Behold  the 
startling  credits  to  Ezekial  Jackson  during 
the  first  ten  days  of  1806: 

Jan.  i,   By    2  Ib.  sugar 2  shillin 

i,  i  qt.  brandy 2  shillin 

5,  i  qt.  brandy 2  shillin 

6,  i  qt.  brandy 2  shillin 

"  10,  i  qt.  brandy 2  shillin 

141 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


But  perhaps  this  was  too  costly  a  pace, 
for  the  next  entry  is,  "Jan.  15,  i  jug, 
I  shillin,"  and  on  the  same  date,  "One 
gallon  of  rum,  6  shillin."  That,  you  see, 
was  somewhat  cheaper  and  required  fewer 
trips  to  town.  On  January  2Oth  the  jug 
was  filled  again,  and  on  the  same  date  we 
find  set  down  "four  and  a  half  yards  of 
chintz  and  one  scane  of  silk."  That  chintz 
and  "scane"  of  silk  look  suspicious — they 
look  like  tranquilizers  for  Sarah,  his  wife. 

Through  that  month  and  the  three  follow 
ing  the  liquid  items  follow  with  alarming 
monotony,  only  separated  here  and  there 
by  entries  of  "tee"  and  sugar  and  certain 
yards  of  "cotting"  and  "scanes"  of  silk  for 
Sarah. 

But  Sarah  was  biding  her  time.  The  book 
does  not  say  that  the  minister  was  asked  to 
call,  or  that  he  came.  It  does  not  need  to. 
We  may  guess  it  from  the  next  entry: 

May  2,   By  i  famly  bible  i  poun,  13  shillin 

That  ended  the  rum  chapter.     There  is 
not    another    spirituous    entry    in    all    of 
142 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Ezekial  Jackson's  credits.  "By  one  mom- 
eter"  comes  next,  May  6th.  Probably 
Captain  Ben  felt  himself  cooling  down 
pretty  rapidly  for  the  season,  and  wanted 
to  take  the  temperature.  Then  follows 
"two  combs "•  — he  was  going  to  keep  slicked 
up — also  earthenware,  indigo,  ' '  cotting, ' ' 
and  more  scanes  of  silk,  mainly  for  Sarah, 
no  doubt,  and  so  on  to  the  end,  when  the 
account  is  closed  and  underneath  is  written: 

This  day  made  all  even  betwixt  Ezekial  Jackson  and 
myself.  B.  M. 

Captain  Ben's  accounts  close  in  1829,  but 
the  shoemaking  records  had  long  since  be 
gun.  They  are  more  prosaic,  but  they  have 
an  interest,  too.  A  book  with  charges 
against  Joel  Barlow  and  Aaron  Burr  could 
hardly  fail  of  that,  though  the  said  Joel 
Barlow  is  not  the  poet-diplomat  who  wrote 
the  "  Columbiad  "  and  shone  in  European 
courts,  nor  Aaron  Burr  the  corrupter  of 
Blennerhassett  and  the  slayer  of  Alexander 
Hamilton.  At  least,  I  judge  they  were  not, 
for  this  Barlow  and  this  Burr  had  cobbling 
charges  against  them  as  late  as  1840,  when 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  intriguing  Aaron  and  the  gifted  Joel 
no  longer  needed  earthly  repairs.  Never 
theless,  they  were  of  the  same  families,  for 
Joel  Barlow,  the  poet,  was  born  just  over 
the  hill  from  us,  and  the  name  of  Aaron 
Burr  was  known  in  Connecticut  long  before 
it  found  doubtful  distinction  in  New  Jersey. 
The  shoemaker's  accounts  reflect  a  life 
that  is  now  all  but  gone.  Seme  of  the 
charges  were  offset  with  potatoes,  some  with 
rye,  some  with  labor,  a  few  of  them  with 
cash.  A  pair  of  boots  in  1828  brought  two 
dollars  and  fifty  cents.  Repairs  ranged 
from  six  cents  up,  many  of  the  charges  be 
ing  set  down  in  half-cents.  Those  were 
exact,  frugal  days. 

II 

We  often  cooked  by  our  fireplace 

One  hundred  and  fifty  Thanksgivings 
must  have  preceded  ours  in  the  old  house, 
but  I  think  out  of  them  all  you  could  not 
have  picked  a  better  one.  I  would  not  like 
to  say  a  more  bountiful  one,  for  I  suppose 

144 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


in  the  earlier  day  they  had  great  wild  tur 
keys  and  perhaps  a  haunch  of  venison, 
braces  of  partridges  and  other  royal  fare. 
Even  so,  they  could  hardly  have  eaten  it  all, 
and  I  think  their  noble  turkey  did  not  taste 
any  better  than  ours.  Moreover,  we  were 
glad  that  our  deer  and  partridges  were  still 
running  free. 

We  did  not  lack  of  native  dishes.  Our 
mince  and  pumpkin  pies  were  home  prod 
ucts,  as  well  as  our  apple -butter  and  a 
variety  of  other  preserves.  Also,  I  had  dis 
covered  a  bed  of  wild  cress  in  the  brook 
and  our  brown  turkey  was  garnished  with 
that  piquant  green.  Certainly  there  was 
an  old-fashioned  feeling  about  our  first 
New  England  holiday — something  precious 
and  genuine,  that  made  all  effort  and  cost 
worth  while. 

The  Pride  and  the  Hope  had  come  home 
for  a  week's  vacation  and  were  reveling  in 
the  house,  which  they  now  for  the  first  time 
saw  in  order.  Of  course  their  rooms  had 
to  be  personally  adjusted,  their  own  special 
belongings  inspected  and  put  away.  Their 
treasures,  after  two  months  of  absence,  were 

145 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


all  new  and  fresh  to  them.  The  Pride, 
reveling  in  her  own  "cozy  corner,"  or  curled 
up  in  a  big  chair  by  the  log  fire,  reread  her 
favorite  books;  the  Hope  and  the  Joy 
played  paper-doll  "ladies"  on  the  deep 
couch,  cutting  out  a  whole  new  generation 
with  up-to-date  wardrobes  from  the  costume 
pages  of  some  marvelous  new  fashion  maga 
zines.  Oblivious  to  the  grosser  world  about 
them,  they  caused  their  respective  families 
to  telephone  and  give  parties  and  visit  back 
and  forth,  and  to  discuss  openly  their  most 
private  affairs  and  move  into  new  houses 
and  make  improvements  and  purchases 
that  would  have  wrecked  Rockefeller  if  the 
bills  had  ever  fallen  due.  That  is  the  glory 
of  make-believe — one  may  go  as  far  as  he 
likes,  building  his  castles  and  his  kingdoms, 
with  never  a  cent  to  pay.  It  is  only  when 
one  tries  to  realize  in  acres  and  bricks  and 
shingles  that  the  accounts  come  in.  A 
spiritistic  friend  of  mine  told  me  recently 
that  the  latest  communications  from  the 
shadow  world  indicate  the  life  there  to  be 
purely  mental,  that  each  spirit  entity  creates 
its  own  environment  and  habitation  by 
146 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


thought  alone.  In  a  word,  it  is  a  world,  he 
said,  where  imagination  is  reality  and  all 
the  dreams  come  true.  Ah  me!  I  hope  he 
is  not  mistaken!  What  dreams  of  empires 
we  have  all  put  away,  what  air-castles  we 
have  seen  melt  and  vanish  because  of  the 
cost!  A  place  where  one  may  build  and 
plant  and  renew  by  the  processes  of  thought 
alone,  unchecked  by  acreage  boundaries  or 
any  sordid  limitations  of  ways  and  means! 
I  cannot  think  of  a  better  or  more  reasonable 
hereafter  than  that.  We  get  a  glimpse  of 
it  here  in  the  play  of  children — little  children 
who  perhaps  have  left  che  truth  not  so  far 
behind. 

"Fashion  ladies"  must  relax  now  and 
then.  Even  in  late  November  there  were 
pleasant  sunny  days  when  the  Hope  and 
the  Joy  roamed  the  fields  or  laid  a  long 
board  across  a  tumbled  wall  and  teetered 
away  vacation  hours  to  the  tune  of 

Seesaw,  Marjory  Daw, 

Sold  her  bed  and  laid  on  straw, 

which  was  probably  first  sung  a  good  way 

back — by  Cain  and  Abel,  maybe,  in  some 

147 


Dwellers  in  Arcade 


corner  of  Eden.  No,  it  would  be  outside  of 
Eden,  for  their  parents  had  moved,  as  I 
remember,  before  their  arrival.  And  I 
wonder  if  little  Cain  and  Abel  had  a  fire 
to  gather  around  when  the  fall  evenings  be 
gan  to  close  in,  before  the  lamps  were  lit, 
and  if  they  ever  had  cakes  and  toast  and 
sandwiches,  with  hot  chocolate,  from  an 
old  blue  china  set  from  a  corner  cupboard, 
and  were  as  hungry  as  bears,  and  rocked 
while  they  ate  and  drank  and  watched  the 
firelight  dance  on  the  tea-things  and  table- 
legs.  If  not,  I  am  afraid  they  missed  some 
thing,  and  perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  little  Cain  became  gloomy  and 
savage  and  outcast  when  he  grew  up.  A 
fireplace  with  a  cozy  cup  of  chocolate  and 
a  bite  of  something  filling  will  civilize  chil 
dren  about  as  quickly  as  anything  I  know 
of,  and  would,  I  am  sure,  have  been  good 
for  Cain. 

We  often  cooked  by  our  fireplace.  We 
hung  a  kettle  over  it  for  tea'  and  toasted 
bread  on  Captain  Ben  Meeker's  long  iron 
toasting-fork.  Then  at  supper-time  we 
would  rake  out  the  coals,  and  on  one  of  the 
148 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


old  gridirons  brought  down  from  the  attic 
would  broil  a  big  steak,  or  some  chops, 
and  if  they  did  not  taste  better  than  any 
other  steak  or  chops  we  certainly  imagined 
they  did,  and  I  am  still  inclined  to  think  we 
were  right.  Then  there  was  popcorn,  and  po 
tatoes  roasted  in  the  ashes, 
and  apples  on  sticks,  though 
this  was  likely  to  be  later 
in  the  evening,  when  the 
tribe  was  hungry  again,' 
for  children  in  vacation 
are  always  hungry,  just 
little  savages,  and  the  best 
way  to  civilize  them  is  to  feed  them,  as  I 
have  said.  It  was  too  bad  they  must  go 
back  to  school,  and  sometimes  we  wished 
there  were  never  any  such  things  as  schools ; 
and  then  again,  when  the  house  was  one 
wild  riot  and  hurrah,  just  at  a  moment 
when  I  wanted  to  reflect,  I  could  appre 
ciate  quite  fully  the  beauties  of  educa 
tion  and  certain  remote  places  where  under 
careful  direction  it  could  be  acquired.  But 
how  silent  and  lonely  the  house  seemed 
when  the  Pride  and  the  Hope  were  gone! 
149 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


How  glad   we  were  that    Christmas  was 
only  a  month  away ! 

in 

Under  the  spell  of  the  white  touch 

In  an  earlier  chapter  I  have  spoken  of 
our  attic  as  an  almost  unfailing  source 
of  supply.  Any  sort  of  vessel  or  implement 
we  might  happen  to  need  was  pretty  certain 
to  turn  up  there  if  we  looked  long  enough. 
It  provided  us  with  jugs  and  jars,  and  by 
and  by,  when  the  snow  came,  a  wooden 
shovel  and  a  bootjack  for  our  rubber  boots. 
I  said  that  probably  some  day  we  should 
find  a  horse  and  buggy  and  harness  up  there, 
which  was  about  all  that  we  needed,  now. 
It  was  just  one  of  those  careless  remarks 
we  all  make  on  occasion.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  that  it  was  tinged  with  prophecy. 

We  did  not  find  the  horse,  harness,  and 
buggy  in  the  attic,  but  we  found  them — 
heired  them,  to  use  a  good  New  England 
word,  just  as  we  had  heired  the  other  things. 
The  automobile  had  not  yet  reached  Brook 
150 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Ridge,  but  it  was  arriving  in  the  centers  and 
suburbs,  upsetting  old  traditions,  severing 
old  ties.  Once  we  had  been  commuters  on 
Long  Island,  and  in  our  happy  suburb  there 
still  lived  a  friend  to  whom  the  years  had 
brought  prosperity  and  motor-machines. 
In  the  earlier,  more  deliberate  years  he  had 
found  comfort  and  sufficient  speed  in  an 
enviable  surrey,  attached  to  a  faithful  family 
horse  which  now,  alas!  was  too  slow,  too 
deliberate  for  the  pace  of  wealth  and  the 
honk-honk  of  style.  So  the  old  horse  stood 
in  the  stable,  for  his  owners  did  not  wish 
to  see  him  go  to  strangers.  But  then  one 
day  they  heard  how  we  had  turned  ourselves 
into  farmers,  and  presently  word  came  that 
if  we  needed  Old  Beek  (shortened  from  Lord 
Beaconsfield),  surrey,  and  harness  complete, 
they  were  ours  to  command.  They  would 
be  delivered  to  us  in  the  city,  the  message 
said,  from  which  point  we  could  drive,  or 
ship,  them  to  the  farm.  It  was  a  windfall 
from  a  clear  sky — we  said  it  must  be  our 
lucky  year.  We  accepted  the  quickest  way, 
and  were  presently  in  the  city  to  receive 
Lord  Beaconsfield. 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Had  it  been  earlier  in  the  year,  during 
those  magic  days  of  September,  or  even  in 
October,  when  the  drifting  leaves  had 
turned  the  highways  into  thoroughfares  of 
gold,  we  should  have  driven  by  easy  stages 
the  sixty  miles,  across  the  hills  and  far  away, 
to  Brook  Ridge,  resting  where  the  night 
found  us.  It  was  too  late  for  that  now. 
The  roadsides  were  no  longer  flower-decked 
or  golden.  An  early  snowfall  had  left  them 
in  rather  a  mixed  condition,  and  the  air 
had  a  chill  in  it  that  did  not  invite  extended 
travel.  We  could  ship  by  boat  to  our  near 
est  Sound  port,  and  the  fifteen-mile  drive 
from  there  seemed  no  great  matter. 

We  admired  the  dignity  with  which  His 
Lordship  drew  up  in  front  of  our  New  York 
hotel.  He  was  a  large,  handsome  animal, 
sorrel  as  to  color,  and  of  a  manner  befitting 
his  station  and  advanced  years.  It  was 
evident  that  we  were  not  of  his  class,  but 
with  the  gentle  tact  of  true  nobility  he 
never,  either  then  or  later,  permitted  this 
difference  in  rank  to  make  us  uncomfortable. 
He  even  allowed  us  to  call  him  "Beek," 
"Old  Beek,"  "good  Old  Beek,"  especially 
152 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


when  there  was  a  lump  of  sugar  in  prospect. 
He  was  very  human. 

But  I  anticipate.  We  were  delighted 
with  Lord  Beaconsfield  and  his  appurte 
nances.  As  for  the  Joy,  she  was  quite  be 
side  herself.  Anything  with  the  semblance 
of  a  horse  would  excite  the  Joy.  I  got  in 
with  the  driver,  and  we  made  our  way  to 
the  river-front,  where  I  saw  His  Lordship 
to  his  state-room  and  the  surrey  stored 
away.  I  don't  suppose  in  all  his  twenty 
years  he  had  ever  taken  a  voyage  before,  but 
he  showed  no  nervousness  or  undue  surprise, 
and  that  night  at  the  port  of  arrival  he 
came  stepping  down  the  gang  -  plank  as 
unconcernedly  as  the  oldest  traveler.  We 
were  up  and  away  rather  early  next  morning, 
for  we  wished  to  travel  leisurely,  and  we 
were  not  familiar  with  the  road. 

On  inquiry  we  learned  there  were  two 
roads — one  to  the  east  and  one  to  the  west 
of  a  little  river,  the  same  that  formed  a 
mill-pond  in  Westbury's  door-yard,  and 
here  a  wide  orderly  stream  flowed  into  the 
sea.  The  "Glen"  road — the  one  to  the 
east — was  thought  to  be  the  shorter,  so  we 
153 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


chose  that.  It  was  a  good  selection,  so  far 
as  scenery  was  concerned,  but  if  I  had  the 
same  drive  to  make  again  I  would  go  the 
other  way.  With  the  exception  of  a  small 
box  of  lunch  crackers  for  the  Joy,  we  had 
provided  no  food  for  the  journey,  for  we  said 
we  could  stop  at  a  village  inn  when  the 
time  came  and  get  something  warm.  That 
was  a  good  idea,  only  there  were  no  villages. 
There  was  not  even  a  country  store  in  that 
lost  land  of  forest  and  hill  and  rocky  cliff 
and  desolate  open  field.  Now  and  then  we 
came  to  a  house,  but  so  dead  and  forbidding 
was  its  aspect  that  we  did  not  dare  even 
to  ask  our  way.  Never  a  soul  appeared  in 
the  door-yard,  and  if  smoke  came  from  the 
chimney  it  was  a  thin,  blue  wisp  as  from 
dying  embers.  The  land  was  asleep,  under 
the  spell  of  the  white  touch.  To  knock  at 
one  of  those  houses  would  have  been,  as  it 
seemed,  to  call  its  occupants  from  their 
winter  trance. 

We  traveled  slowly,  for  the  roads  were 

sticky,   and   there  were  many  hills.     We 

could  not  ask  Lord  Beaconsfield  to  do  more 

than  walk,  which  he  did  sturdily  enough, 

154 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


tugging  up  the  long  hills,  though  they  were 
probably  the  first  he  had  ever  seen,  for  his 
part  of  Long  Island  had  been  level  ground. 
What  must  he  have  thought  of  that  chaotic 
desolation,  where  most  of  the  woods  and  a 
good  many  of  the  fields  were  set  up  at 
foolish  angles  against  other  woods  and  fields 
and  where  there  was  no  sign  of  food  for  man 
or  beast? 

But  if  we  were  timid  about  making  in 
quiries,  His  Lordship  was  not.  When  his 
appetite  became  urgent  he  forgot  that  he 
had  come  of  a  proud  race,  and  soon  after 
noon-time  began  to  trumpet  his  demands, 
and  his  alarm,  like  an  ordinary  horse.  His 
stable  at  home  must  have  been  red,  for  at 
every  barn  of  that  friendly  color — and  most 
of  them  were  of  that  hue — he  sent  a  clarion 
neigh  across  the  echoing  hills.  The  Joy, 
bundled  warmly,  munched  her  crackers  and 
made  little  complaint.  Her  elders  diverted 
themselves  by  admiring  che  winter  scenery 
—the  bared  woods,  lightly  dressed  with 
snow,  the  rocky  cliffs  and  ledges,  the 
tumbling  black  river  that  now  and  again 
came  into  view. 

155 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


As  the  afternoon  wore  on  and  we  arrived 
nowhere,  we  became  disturbed  by  doubts 
as  to  our  direction.  It  was  true  that  wre 
seemed  to  be  following  the  general  course  of 
the  river,  but  was  it  the  right  river?  Hadn't 
we  gone  trailing  off  somewhere  on  a  second- 
class  tributary  that  had  been  leading  us  all 
day  through  a  weird,  bedeviled  territory 
that  probably  wasn't  on  the  map  at  all? 
The  brief  daylight  was  fading  and  it  was 
important  that  we  arrive  somewhere,  pretty 
soon.  We  must  make  inquiry.  It  would  be 
better  to  rouse  even  one  of  the  seven  sleepers 
than  to  wander  aimlessly  into  the  night. 
At  the  next  house,  I  said,  we  would  knock. 

But  at  the  next  house  we  actually  dis 
covered  something  moving — something  out 
side.  As  we  came  nearer  it  took  the  form 
of  a  man,  a  sad  man,  dragging  a  crooked 
limb  from  a  wood-pile.  I  drew  up. 

' '  Good  afternoon, ' '  I  said.  ' '  Can  you  tell 
us  where  we  are?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  grunted,  as  he  worked 
and  pulled  at  the  limb.  "  You're  at  Valley 
Forge." 

Valley  Forge !    Heavens !    We  were  within 
156 


*' C^ood  afternoon"  I  said.     "Can  you 
tell  us  where  we  are?  " 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


twenty  miles  of  Philadelphia,  on  the  Schuyl- 
kill.  At  the  pace  we  had  been  going  it  did 
not  seem  reasonable.  This  must  be  en 
chantment,  sure  enough. 

"Look  here/'  I  said,  "you  don't  mean 
that  this  is  Valley  Forge  where  Washington 
was  quartered." 

"Don't  know  anything  about  that,"  he 
said,  still  grunting  over  the  crooked  limb, 
"but  I've  been  quartered  here  for  more  'n 
sixty  years,  an'  it's  always  been  the  same 
Valley  Forge  in  my  time." 

"Is — is  this  Connecticut?" 

"That's  what  it  is." 

I  breathed  easier.  If  he  had  said  Pennsyl 
vania  it  would  have  meant  that  we  were  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  home. 

"Do  you  know  of  any  place  called  the 
Glen?" 

"Of  course;  right  up  ahead  a  few  miles. 
Where 'd  you  folks  come  from,  anyway? 
You  don't  appear  to  know  much  about 
locations." 

I  side-stepped,  thanking  him  profusely. 
We  were  all  right,  then,  but  it  seemed  a 
narrow  escape. 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


At  last  we  entered  the  Glen  and  recog 
nized  certain  landmarks.  It  was  a  somber 
place  now — its  aspect  weirdly  changed  since 
the  first  days  of  our  coming.  Then  it  had 
been  a  riot  of  summer-time,  the  cliffs  a  mat 
and  tangle  of  green  that  had  shut  us  in. 
On  this  dull  December  evening,  with  its 
vines  and  shrubs  and  gaunt  trees  bare,  its 
pointed  cedars  and  hemlocks  the  only  green, 
its  dark  water  swirling  under  overhanging 
rocks,  it  had  become  an  entrance  to  Val 
halla,  the  dim  abode  of  the  gods. 

How  friendly  Westbury's  lights  looked 
when  we  crossed  the  bridge  by  the  mill  and 
turned  into  the  drive,  and  what  gracious 
comfort  there  was  in  his  bright  fire  and 
warm,  waiting  supper.  We  did  not  go  up 
the  hill  that  night.  Good  Old  Beek  found 
rest  and  food  and  society  in  Westbury's  big 
red  barn. 

IV 

The  difficulty  was  to  get  busy 

I  have  referred  more  than  once,  I  am  sure, 
to  my  study  behind   the  chimney,  a  tiny 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


place  of  about  seven  by  nine  feet,  once,  no 
doubt,  the  " parlor  bedroom/*  I  selected 
it  chiefly  because  of  its  size.  I  said  one 
could  condense  his  thoughts  so  much  better 
in  a  limited  area.  I  shelved  one  side  and 
end  of  it  to  the  ceiling,  put  dull-green  paper 
on  the  walls,  padded  its  billowy  floor  with 
excelsior,  put  down  dull-green  denim  as  a 
rug  basis,  and  painted  the  woodwork  to 
match.  Then  I  set  my  work-table  in  the 
center,  where  I  could  reach  almost  any 
thing  without  getting  up ;  and  certainly  with 
its  capable  fireplace  it  was  as  cozy  and 
inviting  a  work-room  as  one  would  find  in 
a  week's  travel. 

The  difficulty  was  to  get  busy  at  the  con 
densing  process.  Work  was  pressing.  Not 
exactly  the  work,  either,  but  the  need  of  it. 
No,  I  mean  the  necessity  of  it.  It  was  the 
need  of  funds  that  was  pressing — that  is 
what  I  have  been  trying  to  convey.  With 
all  the  buying  and  improving,  and  the  loads 
of  new  indispensables  that  Westbury  was 
constantly  bringing  from  the  nearest  town 
of  size,  the  exchequer  was  running  low.  I 
am  not  really  so  lazy,  once  I  get  started,  but 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


I  have  a  constitutional  hesitancy  in  the 
matter  of  getting  started.  My  will  and  en 
thusiasm  are  both  in  good  supply,  but  my 
ability  to  sit  down  and  really  begin  is 
elusive. 

It  was  especially  so  that  winter;  there 
were  so  many  excuses  for  not  getting  started. 
Mornings  I  would  rise  firm  in  the  resolve 
that  the  day  and  hour  were  at  hand.  After 
breakfast  I  would  determinedly  start  for  the 
room  behind  the  chimney.  Unfortunately 
I  had  to  pass  through  our  "best  room"  to 
get  there.  There  was  certain  to  be  a  picture 
or  something  a  little  out  of  place  in  that 
room.  Whatever  it  was,  it  must  be  at 
tended  to.  It  would  annoy  me  to  leave  a 
thing  like  that  unremedied.  One's  mind 
must  be  quite  untrammeled  to  condense. 
Sometimes  I  had  to  rearrange  several  of  the 
pictures,  and  straighten  the  books,  and  pull 
the  rugs  around  a  little,  before  I  felt  ready 
for  the  condensing  process.  But  then 
I  would  be  certain  to  notice  something 
out  in  the  yard  that  was  not  in  place. 
We  took  a  pride  in  our  yard.  Once 
outside,  one  thing  generally  led  to  an- 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


other,  and  in  the  course  of  time  I  would 
be  pawing  over  stuff  in  the  barn.  Then  it 
was  about  luncheon-time — it  would  hardly 
be  worth  starting  the  condensing  business 
till  afterward. 

Perhaps  I  would  actually  get  into  the 
room  behind  the  chimney  after  luncheon, 
but  one  could  not  begin  work  until  the  fire 
was  replenished  and  a  supply  of  wood 
brought.  Then  while  one  was  at  it  one 
might  as  well  get  in  a  supply  of  fuel  for  the 
other  fires,  so  as  to  have  a  clear  afternoon 
for  a  good  substantial  beginning. 

Oh,  well,  you  see  where  all  those  paltry 
subterfuges  ended.  It  was  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  remember  something  I 
wanted  to  tell  Westbury — something  im 
portant —  and  our  telephone  lines  were 
not  yet  connected.  It  would  be  about 
five  when  I  got  back,  and  of  course 
one  could  not  start  a  piece  of  work  late 
in  the  day  when  one  was  all  worn  out. 
To-morrow,  bright  and  early,  would  be 
the  time. 

Then,  just  as  likely  as  not,  to-morrow 
would  be  one  of  those  bad-luck  days.  In 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


a  diary  which  I  kept  at  the  time  I  find  a 
record  of  a  day  of  that  sort. 

Began  this  morning  by  breaking  a  lamp  chimney  before 
I  was  dressed.  I  continued  by  stepping  on  Pussum's  tail 
on  the  way  down-stairs  in  the  dark,  which  caused  me  to 
slide  and  scrape  the  rest  of  the  way.  Elizabeth  came  to 
the  head  of  the  stairs  with  a  fresh  lamp  and  the  remark 
that  she  thought  I  had  given  up  using  such  language.  In 
applying  the  liniment  I  upset  the  greasy  stuff  on  the 
living-room  rug  and  it  required  an  hour's  brisk  rubbing 
to  get  it  out.  Not  being  satisfied  with  this,  I  turned  over 
a  bottle  of  ink  when  I  sat  down  after  breakfast  to  dash 
off  an  important  note  before  mail-time.  Nobody  could 
think  consecutively  after  a  series  like  that,  so  I  went 
out  for  some  fresh  air  and  decided  to  clean  up  a  rough 
corner  by  the  brook.  I  scratched  my  nose,  strained 
my  wrist,  and  mashed  my  ringer  with  a  stone.  Only 
a  loo-per-cent.  Christian  could  remain  calm  on  such  a 
day.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  warily  and  softly,  and  really 
begin  work. 

I  did,  in  fact,  against  all  intention  and 
good  judgment,  begin  one  evening  just 
about  bedtime,  and  worked  until  quite  late. 
It  was  not  a  bad  beginning,  either,  as  such 
things  go — at  least,  I  have  tried  harder  and 
made  worse  ones.  After  that  the  condens 
ing  process  went  better.  I  could  any  time 
find  excuses  for  not  working,  but  I  did  not 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


hunt  for  them  so  anxiously.  I  was  pretty 
fairly  under  way  by  Christmas,  and  the 
little  room  behind  the  chimney  had  all  at 
once  become  the  most  alluring  place  in  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  SIX 


The  magic  of  the  starlit  tree 

E  have  always  had  a 
tree  for  Christmas. 
Long  ago,  far  back 
in  our  early  flat- 
dwelling  days,  we  had 
our  first  one,  and  I  re 
member  we  shopped 
for  it  Christmas  Eve 
among  the  bright 
little  Harlem  groceries  where  they  had  them 
ranged  outside,  picking  very  carefully  for 
one  symmetrical  in  shape  and  small  of  size 
and  price,  to  fit  our  tiny  flat  and,  oh  yes, 
indeed,  our  casual  income.  I  remember, 
too,  that  when  it  was  finally  bought  I  put 
it  on  my  shoulder  with  a  proud  feeling,  and 
we  drifted  farther,  picking  up  the  trimmings 
—the  tinsel  and  gay  ornaments,  the  small 
gifts  for  the  one  very  small  person  who  had 
164 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


so  recently  come  to  live  with  us,  discussing 
each  purchase  with  due  deliberation,  going 
home  at  last  with  rather  more  than  we 
could  afford,  I  fear,  for  I  recall  further  that 
we  did  not  have  enough  left  next  morning 
to  buy  butter  for  breakfast.  How  young 
we  were  then,  and  how  poor,  and  how 
happy!  and  Christmas  morning,  with  its 
twinkling  mystery,  was  the  most  precious 
thing  of  the  whole  year. 

It  still  remained  so.  Time  could  not  dim 
the  magic  of  the  starlit  tree.  Another  little 
person  had  come,  and  another.  A  larger 
tree  and  more  decorations  were  needed,  and 
the  presents  grew  in  number  and  variety, 
but  the  old  charm  of  secret  preparation, 
and  morning  gifts,  and  the  lights  that  first 
twinkled  around  a  manger,  did  not  fade. 

We  did  not  buy  a  tree  at  Brook  Ridge. 
There  was  no  need.  Across  the  road,  part 
way  up  the  slope,  was  a  collection  of  green 
and  shapely  little  cedars — a  regular  Santa 
Claus  grove — and  on  the  afternoon  before 
Christmas,  a  gray,  still  afternoon,  heavy 
with  mystic  portent,  Elizabeth  and  I  took 
a  small  ax  and  climbed  up  there,  and 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


picked  and  selected,  just  as  we  had  done  in 
those  earlier  years,  and  came  home  with 
our  tree,  stealthily  carrying  it  in  the  back 
way,  to  the  wood-house,  and  fitting  it  to  the 
small  green  stand  that  we  had  used  and  pre 
served  from  year  to 
year.  The  little 
girl  for  whom 


we  had  bought  the  first  tree  was  the  Pride, 
now  aged  twelve,  and  no  longer  without 
knowledge  of  the  Christmas  saint,  but  the 
romance  of  not  knowing,  of  still  believing 
in  it  all,  was  too  precious  to  be  put  away 
yet,  and  she  was  off  to  bed  with  the  others 
to  bring  more  quickly  the  joyous  morning. 
Alone,  as  heretofore,  Elizabeth  and  I  tied 
and  marked  the  tissue  packages,  and  in  some 
166  • 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


of  the  books  wrote  rhymes,  such  as  only 
Santa  Claus  can  think  of  when  he  has  fin 
ished  his  remote  year  of  toil  and  has  started 
out  with  his  loaded. sleigh  to  strew  happiness 
around  the  world. 

I  suppose  there  is  no  more  delightful  em 
ployment  than  to  watch  the  thing  that  will 
give  a  splendid  joy  to  one's  children  grow 
and  glisten  under  one's  hands — to  view  it  at 
different  angles  during  the  process;  to  note 
how  it  begins  to  look  "  Christmasy,"  to  add  a 
touch  here,  a  brightness  there,  to  see  it  at  last 
radiant  and  complete,  ready  for  the  morning 
illumination.  On  the  topmost  branch  each 
year  there  was  always  the  same  little  hanging 
ornament,  a  swinging  tinseled  cherub  that  we 
had  bought  for  the  very  first  little  tree  and  the 
very  first  little  girl,  in  the  days  when  we  had 
been  so  young,  so  poor,  and  so  happy. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  last  touch  was 
given  and  the  cherub  was  swinging  at  the 
top,  and  it  was  only  a  wink  or  two  after 
ward,  it  seemed,  that  there  were  callings 
back  and  forth  from  small  beds  and  a  general 
demand  for  investigation.  A  hurried  semi- 
dressing,  a  fire  blazing  up  the  chimney,  a 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


door  thrown  open  upon  a  sparkling,  span 
gled  tree.  Eager  exclamations,  moments  of 
awed  silence,  after  which  the  thrilling  dis 
tribution  of  gifts.  Human  life  holds  few 
things  better  or  happier  than  such  a  Christ 
mas  morning.  Whatever  else  the  Christ- 
child  brought  to  the  world,  that  alone  would 
make  his  coming  a  boon  to  mankind. 

On  our  wall  hung  a  quaint  framed  print  of 
the  first  Christmas  family,  and  under  it  some 
verses  by  the  now  all-but-forgotten  poet, 
Edwin  Waugh.  In  those  days  it  was  our 
custom,  when  the  distribution  was  over  and 
the  morning  light  filled  the  room,  to  gather 
in  front  of  the  picture  and  sing  the  verses 
to  a  simple  tune  of  our  own.  It  was  a  poor 
little  ceremony,  but,  remembering  it  now, 
I  am  glad  that  we  thought  it  worth  while. 
The  verses  are  certainly  so,  and  I  want  to 
preserve  them  here — they  are  so  little  known. 

CHRISTMAS   CAROL 
BY  EDWIN  WAUGH 

Long  time  ago  in  Palestine, 

Upon  a  wintry  morn, 
All  in  a  lowly  cattle-shed 

The  Prince  of  Peace  was  born. 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


The  clouds  fled  from  the  gloomy  sky, 

The  winds  in  silence  lay, 
And  the  stars  shone  bright  with  strange  delight 

To  welcome  in  that  day. 

His  parents  they  were  simple  folk 

And  simple  lives  they  led, 
And  in  the  ways  of  righteousness 

This  little  Child  was  bred. 

In  gentle  thought  and  gentle  deed 

His  early  days  went  by, 
And  the  light  His  youthful  steps  did  lead 

Came  down  from  heaven  on  high. 

He  was  the  friend  of  all  the  poor 

That  wander  here  below; 
It  was  His  only  joy  on  earth 

To  ease  them  of  their  woe. 

In  pain  He  trod  His  holy  path, 

By  sorrow  sorely  tried; 
It  was  for  all  mankind  He  lived, 

And  for  mankind  He  died. 

Like  Him  let  us  be  just  and  pure, 

Like  Him  be  true  alway, 
That  we  may  find  the  peace  of  mind 

That  never  fades  away. 

II 

Westbury   dropped    in 

So  came  the  deeps  of  winter — January 
in  New  England.    With  the  Pride  and  the 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Hope  back  at  school,  Elizabeth  and  I,  with 
the  Joy,  shut  away  from  most  of  the  sounds 
and  strivings  of  men,  looked  out  on  the  heap 
ing  drifts  and  gathered  about  blazing  logs, 
piled  sometimes  almost  to  the  chimney  throat . 
It  was  our  refreshment  and  exercise  to 
bring  in  the  logs.  We  were  told  that  in  a 
former  day  they  had  been  dragged  in  by  a 
horse,  who  drew  them  right  up  to  the  wide 
stone  hearth.  But  we  did  not  use  Lord 
Beaconsfield  for  this  work.  For  one  thing, 
he  would  have  been  too  big  to  get  through 
the  door;  besides,  we  were  strong,  and 
liked  the  job.  We  had  two  pairs  of  ice- 
tongs,  and  we  would  put  on  our  rubber 
boots,  and  fake  the  tongs,  and  go  out  into 
the  snow,  and  fasten  to  a  log — one  at  each 
end — and  drag  it  across  Captain  Ben's 
iron  door-sill,  and  lift  it  in  and  swing  it 
across  the  stout  andirons  with  a  skill  that 
improved  with  each  day's  practice.  They 
were  good,  lusty  sticks — some  of  them 
nearly  two  feet  through.  These  were  the 
back-logs,  and  they  would  last  two  or  three 
days,  buried  in  the  ashes,  breaking  at  last 
into  a  mass  of  splendid  coals. 
170 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


In  New  England  one  builds  a  fire  scien 
tifically,  if  he  expects  to  keep  warm  by  it. 
There  must  be  a  fore-stick  and  a  back-stick, 
and  a  pyramid  of  other  sticks,  with  proper 
draught  below  and  flame  outlets  above. 
And  he  must  not  spare  fuel — not  if  he 
expects  heat.  Westbury  dro'pped  in  one 
afternoon  just  when  we  had  completed  a 
masterpiece  in  fire-building.  He  went  up 
to  warm  his  hands  and  regarded  the  blazing 
heap  of  hickory  with  critical  appraisal. 

"That  fire  cost  you  two  dollars,"  he  re 
marked,  probably  recalling  the  number  of 
days  it  had  taken  Old  Pop  and  Sam  to 
cut  and  cord  the  big  hickory  across  the 
brook. 

"  It's  worth  it,"  I  said.  "  I 've  paid  many 
a  two  dollars  for  luxuries  that  weren't  worth 
five  minutes  of  this." 

Westbury  dropped  into  a  comfortable 
chair,  took  out  his  knife,  and  picked  up  a 
piece  of  pine  kindling. 

"You  think  this  beats  city  life?"  he  ob 
served,  whittling  slowly. 

"Well,  that  depends  on  what  you  want. 
If  you  like  noise  and  action,  the  city's  the 

13  171 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


place.  We  once  lived  in  a  flat  where  there 
was  a  piano  at  one  end  of  the  hall  and  two 
phonographs  at  the  other.  Then  there  was 
a  man  across  the  air-shaft  who  practised 
on  the  clarinet,  and  a  professional  singer 
up-stairs.  Besides  this,  when  the  season 
was  right,  we  had  a  hand-organ  concert 
every  few  minutes  on  the  street.  When 
everything  was  going  at  once  it  was  quite  a 
combination.  The  trolley  in  front  and  the 
Elevated  railway  behind  helped  out,  too, 
besides  the  automobiles,  and  the  newsboys 
and  more  or  less  babies  that  were  trying  to 
do  their  part.  Some  people  would  be  lone 
some  without  those  things,  I  suppose." 

Westbury  whittled  reflectively. 

"I  like  to  be  where  it's  busy,"  he  com 
mented,  "but  I  guess  a  fellow  could  get  tired 
of  too  much  of  it.  It's  pretty  nice  to  live 
where  you  can  look  out  on  the  snow  and  the 
woods,  and  where  you  can  hear  it  rain,  and 
in  the  spring  wake  up  in  the  night  and  listen 
to  the  frogs  sing."  Westbury 's  eye  ranged 
about  the  room,  taking  in  the  pictures  and 
bric-a-brac  and  the  bookshelves  along  the 
wall.  "I  wonder  what  Captain  Ben  Meeker 
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Dwellers  in  Arcady 


would  think  to  see  his  old  kitchen  turned 
into  a  library,"  he  went  on,  thoughtfully. 
"  Not  many  books  in  his  day,  I  guess ;  may 
be  one  or  two  on  the  parlor  table,  mostly 
about  religion.  They  were  pretty  strong  on 
religion,  back  in  that  time,  though  Captain 
Ben,  I  guess,  didn't  go  in  on  it  as  heavy 
as  his  wife.  Captain  Ben  was  more  for 
hunting,  and  horses,  and  dogs,  and  the  man 
that  could  cut  the  most  grass  in  a  day. 
The  story  goes  that  when  Eli  Bray  ton,  the 
shoemaker,  wanted  to  marry  Molly  Meeker, 
Captain  Ben  wouldn't  give  her  to  him  be 
cause  he  said  Eli  hadn't  proved  himself  a 
man  yet.  Bray  ton  was  boarding  in  the 
family  and  working  in  the  little  shop  that 
used  to  stand  across  the  road.  Aunt  Sarah 
Meeker,  Captain  Ben's  wife,  wanted  the 
shoemaker  in  the  family  because  he  was 
religious;  but  Captain  Ben  said,  'No,  sir, 
he's  got  to  prove  himself  a  man  before  he 
can  have  Molly.'  Well,  one  day  Eli  Brayton 
saw  a  fox  up  in  the  timber,  and  came  down 
to  the  house  and  told  Captain  Ben  about 
it.  'Let  me  have  your  gun,'  he  said,  'and 
I'll  go  up  and  get  that  chap  that's  been 
173 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


killing  your  chickens  lately.'  'All  right/ 
says  Captain  Ben,  'but  you  won't  get  him/ 
Eli  didn't  say  anything,  but  took  the  old 
musket  and  slipped  up  there,  and  by  and 
by  they  heard  a  shot  and  pretty  soon  he 
came  down  the  hill  with  Mr.  Fox  over  his 
shoulder.  They  went  out  on  the  step  to 
meet  him,  and  he  threw  the  fox  down  in 
front  of  Molly  Meeker.  'There's  some  fur 
for  you,'  he  said,  'and  I  guess  he  won't 
catch  any  more  chickens.'  Captain  Ben 
went  up  to  Eli  and  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  'Now  you've  proved  yourself  a 
man,'  he  says,  'and  you  can  have  Molly.' 
That  was  my  wife's  grandmother.  She  was 
an  only  child  and  the  Meekers  and  the 
Braytons  lived  here  together.  Eli  Brayton 
grew  to  be  quite  a  character  himself.  When 
they  came  around  to  him  to  collect  money 
for  the  church  he'd  contribute  some  of  his 
unpaid  shoe  accounts.  He  knew  the  people 
that  owed  them  would  pay  the  church,  be 
cause  they'd  be  afraid  not  to.  Old  Deacon 
Timothy  Todd  used  to  do  the  collecting. 
He  had  a  high-keyed  voice  and  no  front 
teeth,  and  always  chewed  as  he  talked. 
174 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


He'd  pull  out  the  bill  and  shake  it  at  the 
man  that  owed  it  and  say:  'A  debt  to  the 
church  is  registered  above.  Not  to  pay  it 
is  a  mortal  sin.  To  perish  in  sin  is  to  be 
burned  with  brimstone  and  eaten  by  the 
worm  that  dieth  not.'  Before  Deacon 
Todd  got  through  that  sinner  was  ready  to 
come  across." 

Westbury  in  childhood  had  seen  Deacon 
Timothy  Todd  and  could  imitate  his  speech 
and  manner.  He  enjoyed  doing  it  as  much 
as  we  enjoyed  hearing  him. 

11  Deacon  Todd  had  two  boys,"  he  went 
on,  "Jim  and  Tim,  and  he  used  to  say,  ' My 
Jim  is  a  good  boy,  but  Tim  proved  himself 
a  bad  one  when  he  slapped  his  mother  with 
an  eel-skin.'  Deacon  Todd  married  a  sec 
ond  time.  He  lent  some  money  to  a  woman 
to  set  up  a  business  in  Westport,  and  a  little 
while  after  his  wife  died  he  went  down  to 
collect  it.  Somebody  met  him  on  the  road 
and  asked  him  where  he  was  going.  '  Well,' 
he  said,  'I'm  just  going  down  to  Westport 
to  collect  a  little  money  I  loaned  a  young 
woman,  and  I'll  bring  back  the  money  or 
the  young  woman,  one  of  the  two,'  and  he 
175 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


did.  He  was  back  with  her  next  day. 
Timothy  Todd  was  a  great  old  chap.  When 
the  Civil  War  broke  out  he  didn't  want  to 
go.  He  was  getting  along  pretty  well,  then 
—forty  or  so — and  had  already  lost  two  of 
his  front  teeth  and  claimed  he  couldn't  bite 
off  the  ca'tridges.  They  used  to  have  to 
bite  off  the  paper  ends  of  them  for  muzzle- 
loading  guns.  Then  the  draft  came  and  he 
was  scared  up  for  fear  they'd  get  him. 
They  didn't,  though,  but  they  got  about  all 
the  others  that  were  left,  and  Deacon  Todd 
went  down  to  see  them  off.  When  the 
train  came  and  he  saw  them  all  get  on,  and 
the  train  starting,  he  forgot  all  about  not 
wanting  to  go,  and  jumped  pn  with  them, 
and  went.  '  I  saw  all  my  friends  was  goin',' 
he  said,  'an'  th'd  be  nobody  left  in  the 
country  but  me.  "I  reckon  I  can  bite 
them  ca'tridges  off  with  my  eye-teeth,  if 
I  really  want  to  do  it,"  I  says,  an'  I  was 
on  the  train  an'  half-way  to  Danbury  before 
I  recollected  that  Mrs.  Todd  had  told  me 
to  bring  home  a  dime's  wuth  o'  coffee  an' 
a  pound  o'  sugar.  I  didn't  get  back  with 
'em  fer  two  years,  an'  then  I  come  in 
176 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


limpin'  with  a  bullet  in  my  left  hind  leg. 
"  Here's  that  pound  o'  coffee  and  dime's 
wuth  o'  sugar,"  I  says.  "I  waited  fer  'em 
to  git  cheaper." 

Westbury's  visits  did  much  to  brighten 
up  the  somber  days,  while  our  blazing 
hearth  and  the  sturdy  little  furnace  down 
stairs  kept  us  warm  and  cozy.  Looking 
out  on  a  landscape  that  was  like  a  Christ 
mas  card,  and  remembering  the  drabble  and 
jangle  of  the  town,  we  were  not  sorry  to  be 
among  the  clean  white  hills. 

in 

No  animal  except  man  digs  and  plants 

It  was  only  a  little  after  Christmas  that 
we  began  planning  for  our  spring  garden. 
As  commuters,  we  had  once  possessed  a 
garden — a  bit  of  ground  thirty-five  feet 
square,  but  fruitful  beyond  belief.  Now 
we  had  broad,  enriched  spaces  that  in  our 
fancy  we  saw  luxuriant  with  vegetable  and 
bright  with  flower. 

I  suppose  one  of  the  most  deeply  seated 
177 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


of  human  instincts  is  to  plant  and  till  the 
soil.  It  is  the  thing  that  separates  us  most 
widely  from  other  animal  life.  The  beasts 
and  birds  and  insects  build  houses,  lay  up 
food,  and  some  of  them,  even  if  unwittingly, 
change  the  style  of  their  clothing  with  the 
seasons.  But  no  animal  except  man  digs 
and  plants  and  cultivates  the  flower  and 
fruit  and  vegetable  that  nourish  his  body 
and  soul.  It  is  something  that  must  date 
back  to  creation,  for  in  the  deepest  winter, 
when  the  ground  is  petrified  and  the  skies 
are  low  and  gray,  the  very  thought  of 
turning  up  the  earth,  and  raking  and  plant 
ing,  awakens  a  thrill  in  the  innermost  re 
cesses  of  the  normal  human  heart,  while  a 
new  seed-catalogue,  filled  with  gay  pictures 
and  gaudy  promises,  becomes  a  poem, 
nothing  less. 

What  gardens  we  anticipate  when  the 
snow  lies  deep  and  we  pore  over  those 
seductive  lists  by  a  blazing  fire!  Never  a 
garden  this  side  of  Paradise  so  fair  as  they. 
For  there  are  no  weeds  in  our  gardens  of 
anticipation,  nor  pests,  nor  drought,  nor 
any  blight.  The  sun  always  shines  there, 
178 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  purple  flowers  are  waving  in  the  wind. 
No  real  garden  will  ever  be  so  beautiful, 
because  it  will  never  quite  be  bathed  in  the 
tender  light,  never  wave  with  quite  the 
loveliness  of  those  fair,  frail  gardens  of  our 
dreams. 

We  planted  many  dream  gardens  that 
winter.  Splendid  catalogues  came  every 
little  while,  and  each  had  its  magic  of  color 
and  special  offers — "Six  rare  roses  for  a 
dollar,"  "Six  papers  of  seeds  for  ten  cents" 
—six  of  anything  to  make  the  heart  happy, 
for  a  ridiculously  small  sum.  The  rich  level 
behind  the  barn  was  to  us  no  longer  hard 
with  frost  and  buried  beneath  the  drifts, 
but  green  and  waving.  Some  days  we 
walked  out  to  look  over  the  ground  a  little 
and  pick  the  places  where  we  would  have 
things,  but  our  imagination  seemed  to  work 
better  in  the  house  by  the  big  fireplace, 
especially  when  we  rattled  the  buff-and- 
green  seed-packets  that  presently  began  to 
come  and  were  kept  handy  in  the  sideboard 
drawer. 

Our  former  garden  had  been  so  small  that 
we  feared  we  should  not  have  enough  for 
179 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


these  new  areas,  and  almost  daily  we  in 
creased  certain  staples  and  discovered  some 
thing  we  had  overlooked,  some  "New  Won 
der"  tomato,  or  "Murphy's  Miracle" 
melon.  Being  strong  for  melons,  I  pinned 
my  faith  to  Murphy's  Miracle,  and  ordered 
several  packets  of  the  seeds  that  would 
produce  it.  Then  I  began  to  have  doubts. 
I  said  if  half  those  seeds  sprouted  and  did 
half  as  well  as  the  catalogue  promised,  the 
level  behind  the  barn  would  fall  a  prey  to 
Murphy  and  become  just  a  heap  of  melons. 
Elizabeth  suggested  that  I  add  another 
acre  and  devote  my  summer  vacation  to 
peddling  them. 

Elizabeth  was  mainly  for  salads.  Any 
thing  that  could  be  served  with  French 
dressing  or  mayonnaise  found  a  place  on  her 
list.  She  got  a  new  copy  of  her  favorite 
Iowa  catalogue,  and  when  she  found  in  it  a 
special  combination  offer  of  "Twelve  new 
things  to  eat  raw"  (it  had  formerly  been 
nine)  she  was  moved  almost  to  tears. 

In  the  matter  of  sweet  corn  and  beans  our 
souls  were  as  one — a  sort  of  spiritual  succo 
tash,  as  it  were — and  we  encouraged  one 
180 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


another  in  any  new  departure  that  would 
increase  or  prolong  this  staple  supply. 
Flowers  we  would  have  pretty  much  every 
where — hollyhocks  in  odd  corners;  del 
phinium  and  foxglove  along  the  stone  walls ; 
bunches  of  calliopsis  and  bleeding-heart  and 
peonies;  borders  of  phlox  and  alyssum; 
beds  of  sweet-williams  and  corn-flowers  and 
columbines — all  those  lovely,  old-fashioned 
things,  with  the  loveliest  old-fashioned 
names  in  the  world.  Where  did  they  get 
those  names,  I  wonder?  for  they  are  among 
the  most  wonderful  in  the  language — each 
one  a  strain  of  word  music.  We  ordered 
hollyhock  roots  and  hollyhock  seed,  and 
delphinium  roots  and  delphinium  seed,  and 
all  the  others  in  roots  and  seeds  that  could 
be  had  in  both  ways,  and  roses  and  roses 
and  roses,  till  I  found  it  desirable  to  lay 
aside  the  fascinating  catalogues  now  and 
then  for  certain  industries  in  the  little  room 
behind  the  chimney,  which  I  called  my 
study,  in  order  to  be  able  to  provide  the 
"inclosed  stamps  or  check,  in  payment  for 
the  same/' 

But  I  believe  there  is  no  money  that  one 
181 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


spends  so  willingly  as  that  invested  in  gar 
den  seeds.  That  is  because  the  normal 
human  being  is  a  visionary,  a  speculator  in 
futures,  a  dealer  in  dreams.  For  every  pen 
ny  he  spends  in  winter  he  pictures  an  over 
flowing  return  in  beauty  or  substance,  in 
flower  and  fruit,  the  glorious  harvest  of 
radiant  summer  days. 

IV 

Then  came  Bella — and  Gibbs 

We  had  other  entertainments.  I  have 
not  thus  far  mentioned  the  domestic  service 
that  followed  Lazarus.  There  was  a  hiatus 
of  brief  duration,  and  then  came  Bella- 
Bella  and  Gibbs.  Bella  was  from  town 
and  of  literary  association.  We  inheri 
ted  her  from  authors  whose  ideals  per 
haps  did  not  accord  with  hers — I  do  not 
know.  At  all  events,  she  tried  ours  for  a 
period.  I  know  that  she  was  considerably 
middle-aged,  hard  of  hearing,  and  short  of 
sight,  and  that  when  I  tried  to  recall  her 
name  I  could  not  think  of  anything  but 
182 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"Hunka-munka,"  Heaven  knows  why — it 
must  have  expressed  her,  I  suppose. 

But  Hunka-munka — Bella,  I  mean — had 
resources.  Her  specialties  were  Kipling  and 
deep-dish  apple  pie.  We  could  have  worried 
along  without  Kipling,  but  her  deep -dish 
pie  with  whipped  cream  on  it  was  a  poem 
that  won  our  hearts.  I  must  be  fair. 
Hunka-munka 's  cooking  was  all  good,  as  to 
taste,  and  if  her  vision  had  been  a  bit  more 
extended  it  might  have  been  of  better  ap 
pearance.  I  suppose  the  steam  collected 
on  her  super-thick  glasses  and  she  had  to 
work  somewhat  by  guess.  Never  mind — I 
still  recall  her  substantial  and  savory  din 
ners  with  deep  gratitude,  especially  the  pie 
of  the  deep  dish  with  whipped  cream  atop. 

Gibbs  came  when  we  acquired  Lord 
Beaconsfield  and  the  furnace.  My  gifts 
do  not  run  to  the  care  of  a  horse  and  an  egg- 
coal  fire.  I  don't  know  where  Gibbs  had 
matriculated,  but  he  professed  to  have  taken 
high  degrees  in  those  functions,  and  thus 
became  a  part  of  our  establishment.  I 
think  he  overestimated  his  powers  in  the 
directions  named,  but  he  was  not  without 
183 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


talents.  He  could  wash  and  wipe  dishes 
and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  he  was  also 
literary.  Like  attracts  like,  by  some  law 
past  understanding.  To  me  it  still  seems 
a  wonderful  thing  that  this  little  waif  of 
a  man  with  a  taste  for 
Tolstoy  and  a  passion 
for  long  words  should 
have  just  then  landed 
upon  us. 

Gibbs  had  a  warm 
and  fairly  snug 
room  in  the  barn 
—  "a  veritable 
bijou  of  an  apart 
ment,"  he  called  it, 
though  it  was,  I  think, 
something  less,  and  he  declared  that  the 
aroma  of  the  hay  and  the  near  presence  of 
Lord  Beaconsfield  gave  him  "a  truly  bucolic 
emotion"  that  was  an  inspiration.  Never 
theless,  Gibbs  could  not  resist  Bella  and 
her  domain.  This  was  proper  enough.  He 
was  convenient  to  hand  her  things,  to  help 
with  the  dishes  and  to  discuss  deeply  and 
at  length  their  favorite  authors.  When  our 
184 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


meals  were  in  preparation  or  safely  over 
there  was  more  literature,  five  to  one,  in 
the  kitchen  than  in  any  other  part  of  the 
house. 

Sometimes  the  drift  of  it  came  to  us.  It 
was  necessary  for  Gibbs  to  speak  up  pretty 
smartly  to  get  his  remarks  into  Hunka- 
munka's  consciousness.  Once  in  the  heat 
of  things  we  heard  him  say:  "One  may  not 
really  compare  or  contrast  the  literary 
emanations  of  Tolstoy  and  Kipling  except 
as  to  the  net  human  residuum.  Difference 
in  environment  would  preclude  any  cosmic 
psychology  of  interrelationship/' 

As  this  noble  sentence  came  hurtling 
through  the  door  I  felt  poor  and  dis 
heartened.  Never  could  I  hope  to  reach 
such  a  height.  And  here  was  Gibbs  wash 
ing  dishes  and  tossing  off  those  things  with 
out  a  thought.  Hunka-munka's  reply  was 
lost  on  us.  Like  many  persons  of  defective 
hearing,  she  had  the  habit  of  speaking  low, 
but  I  do  not  think  her  remarks  were  in  the 
gaudy  class  of  her  associate's. 

Their  discussions  were  not  entirely  of 
Tolstoy  and  Kipling.  There  was  a  neigh- 
185 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


borhood  library  and  they  took  books  from 
it — books  which  I  judge  became  more  ro 
mantic  as  the  weeks  went  by.  I  judge  this 
because  Gibbs  grew  more  careful  in  the 
matter  of  dress,  and  when  the  days  became 
pleasanter  the  two  walked  down  to  the 
bridge  across  the  brook  and  looked  over  into 
the  water,  after  the  manner  of  heroes  and 
heroines  in  the  novels  of  Mrs.  Southworth 
and  Bertha  M.  Clay. 

What  might  have  been  the  outcome  of  the 
discussions,  the  dish- washings,  the  walks, 
the  leanings  over  the  bridge  at  the  trysting- 
place,  we  may  only  speculate  now.  For  a 
time  the  outlook  for  this  "romance  of  real 
life"  seemed  promising,  then  came  disillu 
sion.  Gibbs,  alas,  had  a  bent  which  at 
first  we  did  not  suspect,  but  which  in  time 
became  only  too  manifest.  It  had  its  root 
in  a  laudable  desire — the  desire  to  destroy 
anything  resembling  strong  drink.  Only, 
I  think  he  went  at  it  in  the  wrong  way.  His 
idea  was  to  destroy  it  by  drinking  it  up. 
He  miscalculated  his  capacity.  It  took  no 
great  quantity  of  strong  waters  to  partially 
destroy  Gibbs,  and  at  such  times  he  was 
186 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


neither  literary  nor  romantic,  no  fit  mate 
for  Hunka-munka,  who  had  a  tidy  sum  in 
savings  laid  away  and  did  not  wish  to  invest 
it  in  the  destroying  process.  I  do  not  know 
what  she  said  to  him,  at  last,  but  there  came 
a  day  when  he  vanished  from  our  sight  and 
knowledge,  and  the  kitchen  after  dinner 
was  silent.  I  suppose  the  change  was  too 
much  for  Hunka-munka,  for  she  saddened 
and  lost  vigor.  Her  deep-dish  pies  became 
savorless,  the  whipped  cream  smeary  and 
sad  of  taste.  She  went  the  way  of  all  cooks, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  spring,  with  the 
buds  breaking  and  the  birds  calling  and  the 
trout  leaping  in  the  brook,  we  should  have 
grieved  as  over  a  broken  song. 


14 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 


We  planted  a  number  of  things 

|HE  whistle  of  a  bird  means 
spring;  the  poking  through  of 
the  skunk  -  cabbage  in  low 
ground,  the  growing  green  mist 
upon  the  woods.  But 
7%^  there  is  one  thing  that 
has  more  positive 
sjfc  spring  in  it  than  any 
of  these — more  of  the 
stir  and  throb  of  awakening,  something 
identified  with  that  earliest  impulse  that 
prompted  some  remote  ancestor  to  make  the 
first  garden.  I  mean  the  smell  of  freshly 
turned  earth  with  the  sun  on  it.  Nothing 
else  is  like  that;  there  is  a  kind  of  madness 
in  it.  Elizabeth  said  it  was  a  poem.  It  is 
that  and  something  more — a  paean,  a  march 
ing  song — a  summons  to  battle. 

Luther  Merrill  came  up  to  plow  the  space 
188 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


back  of  the  barn.  When  he  had  turned  up 
a  furrow  or  so  to  the  warm  April  sun,  and 
I  got  a  whiff  of  it,  reason  fled.  I  began 
capering  about  with  a  rake  and  a  hoe,  shout 
ing  to  Elizabeth  to  bring  the  seeds — all  the 
seeds — also  the  catalogues,  so  that  we  might 
order  more  Why,  those  little  packages 
were  only  a  beginning!  We  must  have 
pounds,  quarts,  bushels.  And  we  must  have 
other  things — sweet-potatoes,  for  instance, 
and  asparagus — we  have  overlooked  those. 
Elizabeth  came,  and  was  bitten  by  that 
smell,  too,  but  she  partially  kept  her  bal 
ance.  She  was  in  favor  of  the  asparagus 
and  sweet- potatoes,  but  she  said  she  thought 
we  had  better  plant  what  we  had  of  the  other 
things  and  see  how  far  they  would  go,  before 
ordering  more.  She  said  the  seed-houses 
would  probably  have  enough  to  go  around 
even  a  week  or  so  later,  and  we  could  use 
what  we  had  on  hand  in  making  what  the 
catalogues  referred  to  as  the  "first  sowing." 
I  was  not  entirely  satisfied,  but  I  sub 
mitted.  I  was  too  much  excited,  too  glad, 
to  oppose  anything.  Luther  Merrill  plowed 
around  and  around,  and  then  harrowed  and 
189 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


cross-harrowed,  while  we  sorted  the  yellow 
packets  and  picked  the  earliest  things  and 
were  presently  raking  and  marking  off 
beds  and  rows,  warm  with  the  fever  of 
tillage. 

We  did  not  always  agree  as  to  the  order 
of  planting.  In  our  small  commuter  garden 
we  had  been  restricted  by  space  limitations 
and  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  planting 
rows  a  good  deal  closer  together  than  the 
directions  on  the  packets  said — an  economy 
of  ground,  but  not  of  toil.  I  had  frequently 
weeded  the  beds,  and  had  found  that  my  feet 
were  not  suited  to  working  between  rows 
six  inches  apart,  while  even  a  baby-sized 
hoe  had  to  be  handled  with  great  care.  I 
said,  now  that  we  had  the  space,  we  would 
separate  our  rows  of  beets  and  radishes  and 
salad  full  ten  to  fourteen  inches,  as  advised 
by  the  authorities  who  had  written  the 
package  directions,  and  thus  give  both  the 
plants  and  the  gardener  more  room. 

But  Elizabeth  had  acquired  the  economy 

habit.     She  declared  that  such  rows  gave 

more  room  for  the  weeds  and  that  it  was 

too  bad  to  waste  the  rich  ground  in  that 

190 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


way.  I  had  to  draw  the  most  pathetic 
picture  of  myself  bending  over  in  the  hot 
sun,  working  with  a  toy  hoe,  and  pulling 
weeds  with  my  fingers,  through  long  July 
days,  to  effect  a  compromise.  Experience 
had  taught  me  that  this  was  the  best  way 
to  get  concessions  from  Elizabeth.  Little 
could  be  gained  by  polemic  argument. 
Besides,  it  was  dangerous.  She  would 
resign,  and  a  good  deal  more  than  half 
the  joy  would  go  out  of  that  precious 
employment  if  I  was  left  to  finish  it  alone. 
Women  are  so  volatile.  It  is  their  main 
attraction. 

The  Joy  helped  us.  That  is,  she  had  a 
little  hoe  and  insisted  on  digging  with  it  in 
the  very  places  where  we  were  raking  and 
marking  and  sowing  and  patting  down  the 
fragrant  earth  that  was  presently  to  wax 
green  with  fruitfulness.  She  was  not  satis 
fied  to  go  off  in  a  remote  corner  and  make  a 
garden  of  her  own.  She  was  strong  for 
community  life,  and  required  close  watch 
ing.  It  was  necessary,  at  last,  to  let  her 
plant  a  crooked  little  row  without  direction 
or  artistic  balance.  Then  she  suddenly  re- 
191 


Dwllers  in  Arcady 


membered  that  she  was  not  a  gardener,  but 
a  horse,  and  plowed  and  harrowed  back  and 
forth  across  the  mellow  ground. 

We  planted  a  number  of  things  that 
first  day  of  our  gardening  in  Brook  Ridge- 
long  rows  of  lettuce  and  radishes  and  pease 
— the  last  named  two  kinds,  the  bush  and 
dwarf  varieties.  Pease  cannot  be  sown  too 
early,  nor  the  other  things,  for  that  matter. 
I  have  known  the  ground  to  freeze  solid 
after  lettuce  and  radishes  had  begun  to 
sprout,  without  serious  resulting  damage. 
We  put  in  some  beets,  too,  and  some  onions, 
but  we  postponed  the  corn  and  bean  plant 
ing.  There  is  nothing  gained  by  putting 
those  tender  things  in  too  early.  Even  if 
they  sprout,  they  do  not  thrive  unless  the 
weather  is  really  warm,  while  a  light  frost 
lays  them  low.  More  than  once  I  have  tried 
very  early  corn-planting,  but  never  with 
much  result.  Once  I  had  quite  a  patch  of 
it  up  about  three  inches  high  when  the  wind 
suddenly  went  to  the  north  and  it  was  cer 
tain  that  the  night  would  bring  frost.  I 
gathered  up  all  the  old  cans  and  boxes  and 
hats  on  the  premises  and  covered  every  hill 
192 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


of  it.  That  was  a  good  scheme,  and  most  of 
my  corn  survived,  but  six  weeks  later,  when 
it  was  green  and  waving,  a  neighbor's  cow 
got  in  and  ate  it  to  the  last  piece.  No,  fate 
is  against  early  corn-planting. 

We  had  seed  enough  for  all  we  wanted  to 
plant  that  first  day,  and  a  good  deal  more 
than  enough  of  some  things.  It's  remark 
able  how  many  lettuce  seeds  there  are  in 
a  buff  packet.  I  sowed  and  sowed  without 
being  able  to  use  up  two  packets.  I  don't 
see  how  they  can  raise  and  gather  so  many 
for  five  cents.  It  was  the  same  with  most 
of  the  other  things.  I  did  not  need  to  re 
order,  and  by  night  I  did  not  particularly 
want  to.  It  had  been  a  pretty  long  day  of 
raking  and  digging  and  patting  down,  and 
I  had  got  over  some  of  the  intoxication  of 
the  earth  smell.  Also,  I  was  lame.  I 
could  see  that  tending  a  garden  of  the  size 
we  had  planned — along,  say,  in  July — was 
going  to  be  a  chore.  No  one  as  yet  had 
come  to  replace  our  ex-domestic  staff:  if 
no  one  came  that  chore  would  fall  to  me. 
In  the  gray  of  the  evening  my  enthusiasm 
was  at  rather  low  ebb.  It  was  all  I  could 

193 


Dwellers  in  Arcade 


do  to  make  out  an  order  for  asparagus  and 
sweet-potato  plants.  A  cool,  quiet  bed,  in 
a  spring  land  where  frogs  are  peeping  in  the 
moist  places,  is  sweet  after  such  a  day. 

II 

Out  of  the  blue 

We  were  not  permanently  abandoned, 
however.  Bella  and  Gibbs,  our  literary 
forces,  were  presently  replaced  by  Lena  and 
William.  Lena  and  William  were  not  liter 
ary.  William  was  just  plain  Tipperary,  and 
Lena  was  a  Finn.  I  extracted  Lena  one 
day  from  a  "Norsk  Employment  Agency," 
selecting  her  chiefly  for  her  full-moon  smile 
and  her  inability  to  speak  any  English  word. 
The  smile  had  a  permanent  look,  and  I 
reasoned  that  an  inability  to  speak  English 
would  be  a  bar  to  her  getting  away.  We 
should  not  mind  it  much  ourselves.  Having 
had  everything  from  a  Pole  to  a  Patagonian, 
we  were  experts  on  sign  language,  and  rather 
favored  it  after  the  flow  of  English  we  had 
just  survived.  I  personally  conducted  Lena 
194 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


to  the  train  and  landed  her  safely  at  Brook 
Ridge. 

William  came  to  us  out  of  the  blue.  One 
morning  I  drew  a  tin  pail  of  water,  bright 
and  splashing  from  the  well,  and  turned  to 
pour  a  little  of  it  into  the  birds'  drinking- 
trough,  a  stone  hollowed  out  at  the  top.  I 
did  not  do  so,  however,  for  a  good  reason— 
a  man  was  sitting  on  the  stone.  He  had 
not  been  there  a  moment  before,  and  I  had 
heard  no  sound.  He  was  gaunt,  pale,  and 
dilapidated,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
in  a  sort  of  general  dog  fight.  He  had  a 
wild  cast  in  his  eyes  and  was  in  no  way 
prepossessing.  His  appearance  suggested  a 
burglar  on  sick-leave. 

I  confess  I  was  startled  by  this  appari 
tion.  I  set  down  the  pail  rather  weakly. 

"Why,  good  morning!"  I  said. 

He  replied  in  a  high-keyed  Irish  intona 
tion,  at  the  moment  rather  feeble  in  volume. 

"C'u'd  ye  give  a  man  a  bite  to  eat  fer 
some  worrk,  now?"  he  asked. 

I  was  relieved.  If  he  had  demanded  my 
purse  I  should  not  have  been  surprised.  I 
nodded  eagerly. 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


"Yes,  indeed.  We  need  some  wood.  If 
you'll  cut  a  little,  I'll  see  that  you  have 
some  breakfast.  You'll  find  the  wood-pile 
and  the  ax  down  there  by  the  barn." 

He  rose  by  a  sort  of  slow  unfolding 
process,  and  I  was  impressed  by  his  height. 
I  gave  him  some  specifications  as  to  the 
wood  needed,  and  he  was  presently  swinging 
the  ax,  though  without  force.  He  lacked 
"pep,"  I  could  see  that,  and  as  soon  as  the 
food  was  ready  I  called  him.  He  ate  little, 
but  he  emptied  the  pot  of  hot  coffee  in 
record  time.  Then  he  came  down  to  where 
I  was  trimming  some  rose-bushes. 

"  W'u'd  ye  let  me  lie  a  bit  on  the  hay?" 
he  said.  "Thin  I'll  do  some  more  of  the 
little  shtove-shticks  fer  yeh.  I'm  feelin1 
none  too  brisk  this  mornin'." 

"Been  sick?"  I  asked. 

"Naw,  just  a  trrifle  weery  with  trav'lin' 
an'  losin'  of  sleep." 

Inside  I  hesitated.  It  was  probably 
overtime  at  housebreaking  that  had  told  on 
him.  I  pointed  at  the  barn,  however. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "take  a  nap — only, 
don't  smoke  in  there." 
196 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


He  vanished,  and  some  three  hours  later 
when  I  had  forgotten  him  I  suddenly  heard 
a  sound  of  great  chopping.  Our  guest  had 
reappeared  at  the  wood-pile,  transformed. 
He  was  no  longer  pale  and  listless.  His  face 
was  ruddy — in  fact,  tanned.  The  cast  in 
his  eye  had  taken  on  fire.  Every  movement 
was  of  amazing  vigor  and  direction.  The 
wood-pile  was  disappearing  and  the  little 
heap  of  "stove-sticks"  growing  in  a  most 
astonishing  way.  I  called  Elizabeth  out  to 
see. 

"If  coffee  and  a  nap  will  make  him  do 
that,"  I  said,  "we'd  better  give  him  dinner 
and  get  enough  wood  to  last  all  summer." 
I  went  down  there.  ' '  What  is  your  name ? ' ' 
I  asked. 

"William— William  Deegan." 

"Well,  William,  you  seem  to  understand 
work.  Come  up  to  dinner  presently,  and 
if  you  want  to  go  on  cutting  this  afternoon 
I'll  pay  you  for  it." 

He   came,   and   there   was   nothing   the 
matter  with  his  appetite  this  time.     Ham 
and  eggs,  potatoes,  beans,  corn-bread,  pie- 
whatever    came   went.     William   was    the 
197 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


apostle  of  the  clean  plate.  Reflecting  some 
what  on  the  matter,  I  reached  the  conclu 
sion  (and  it  was  justified  by  later  events) 
that  William  had  perhaps  been  entertaining 
himself  with  friends  the  night  before — dur 
ing  several  nights  before,  I  judge — and  was 
suffering  from  temporary  reaction  when  he 
had  appeared  on  our  horizon.  Coffee  and 
a  nap  had  restored  him.  He  was  quick 
on  recovery,  I  will  say  that. 

You  never  saw  such  a  hole  in  a  wood-pile 
as  he  made  that  afternoon.  When  I  went 
down  to  settle  with  him  and  announce  sup 
per  he  was  still  in  full  swing,  apparently 
intending  to  go  on  all  night. 

"William,"  I  said,  "you're  a  boss  hand 
with  an  ax." 

"Well,  sur,"  said  William,  his  Celtic  tim 
bre  pitched  to  the  sky,  "if  I  could  be 
shtayin'  a  day  or  two  longer  I'd  finish  the 
job  fer  ye." 

Was  this  a  proposition  to  rob  the  house 
and  murder  us  in  our  beds?  I  looked  at 
the  wood-pile  and  at  William.  There  was 
something  about  their  intimate  relations 
that  had  an  honest  look.  I  remembered 
198 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  extensive  garden  that  would  have  to  be 
hoed  in  July. 

"Where  would  you  go  from  here?"  I  said. 

"I  don't  know,  sur.  I'll  be  lookin'  fer  a 
job." 

"Do  you  understand  gardening  and  tak 
ing  care  of  a  horse  and  cow?" 

"Yes,  sur,  I  do  that." 

I  had  an  impulse  to  ask  him  about  his 
last  job,  but  I  checked  it.  It  was  a  ques 
tion  that  could  lead  to  embarrassment.  I 
would  accept  him  on  his  demonstration,  or 
not  at  all. 

"So  you  want  a  summer  job,  at  general 
farm- work?" 

"Yes,  sur,  I  do." 

"Well,  William,  you've  found  one,  right 
here." 

Even  after  the  lapse  of  a  dozen  years  I 
cannot  write  of  William  without  a  tugginf 
at  the  heart.  We  never  knew  his  ante 
cedents — never  knew  where  behind  the  sky 
line  he  had  been  concealed  all  those  years 
before  that  morning  when  he  appeared,  pale 
and  unannounced,  at  the  well.  We  got  the 
impression,  as  time  passed,  that  he  had  once 

199 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


been  married  and  that  he  had  at  some  time 
been  somewhere  on  a  peach-farm.  With 
the  exception  of  certain  brief  intervals — of 
which  I  may  speak  later — he  remained  with 
us  three  years,  and  that  was  as  much  as  we 
ever  knew,  for  he  talked  little,  and  not  at 
all  of  the  past.  His  face  value  was  certainly 
not  much,  and  some  of  his  habits  could  have 
been  improved,  but  a  more  faithful  and 
honest  soul  than  William  Deegan  never 
lived. 

in 

"Ah,  the  bonny  cow!" 

We  had  acquired  Mis'  Cow  a  few  weeks 
before  William's  arrival.  It  was  partly  on 
account  of  the  milk  that  we  wanted  her, 
partly  because  there  was  an  empty  stall 
next  to  Old  Beek's  and  we  thought  she 
would  be  company  for  him,  partly  because 
we  wanted  a  cow  in  the  landscape — a  mov 
ing  picture  of  her  in  the  green  pasture  across 
the  road — finally  (and  I  believe  principally) 
because  we  have  a  mania  for  restoring  things 

200 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


and  Mis'  Cow  looked  as  if  she  needed  to  be 
restored. 

She  was  owned  by  a  man  who  was  mov 
ing  away — moving  because  he  had  not  made 
a  success  of  chicken-farming  by  book,  and 
still  less  of  Mis'  Cow.  He  was  not  her 
first  owner,  nor  her  second,  nor  her  third. 
I  don't  know  what  his  number  was  on  her 
list  of  owners,  but  I  know  if  he  had  kept 
her  much  longer  he  would  have  been  her 
last  one.  More  than  once  we  had  bought 
the  mere  frame  of  a  haircloth  couch,  and 
taken  an  esthetic  pleasure  in  having  it 
polished  and  upholstered,  and  made  into 
a  thing  of  beauty  and  service.  It  was  with 
this  view  that  we  acquired  Mis'  Cow,  who 
at  the  moment  was  a  mere  frame  with  a 
patchy  Holstein  covering  and  a  feebly  hang 
ing  tail.  We  gave  thirty-five  dollars  for 
her,  and  the  man  who  was  moving  because 
he  had  not  made  a  success  of  chickens  threw 
in  a  single  buggy  that  broke  down  the  week 
after  he  left. 

We  consulted  Westbury  on  the  matter  of 
Mis'  Cow's  past  history,  and  it  was  the 
only  time  I  ever  knew  W.  C.  Westbury  to 

2OI 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


be  inexact  as  to  the  age  and  habits  of  any 
animal  in  Brook  Ridge.  He  said  he  had 
always  known  her  as  a  good  milker,  but 
that  she  had  been  unfortunate  of  late  years 
in  her  owners.  He  couldn't  remember  her 
age,  but  he  didn't  think  it  was  enough  to 
hurt  her.  My  opinion  is  that  he  could  have 
given  her  exact  birthday  and  record  had  he 
really  tried,  but  that  kindness  of  heart 
prompted  him  to  encourage  a  trade  that 
might  improve  her  fortunes.  I  suspect  that 
they  had  played  together  in  childhood. 

We  managed  to  get  Mis'  Cow  up  the  hill 
and  into  her  stall,  where  we  could  provide 
her  with  upholstery  material.  The  little 
pasture  across  the  road  was  getting  green 
and  she  presently  had  the  full  run  of  it. 
The  restoring  progress  began,  as  it  were, 
overnight.  If  ever  an  article  of  furniture 
paid  a  quick  return  in  the  matter  of  looks, 
she  did.  She  could  never  be  a  very  fat 
Mis'  Cow — she  was  not  of  that  build. 
But  a  few  days  of  good  food  and  plenty  of  it 
certainly  worked  wonders.  She  filled  out 
several  of  the  most  alarming  hollows  around 
her  hips  and  along  her  ridge-pole,  she 

202 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


seemingly  took  on  height  and  length.  She 
grew  smooth,  even  glossy;  her  tail  no  longer 
hung  on  her  like  a  bell-cord,  but  became  a 
lithe  weapon  of  defense  that  could  swat  a 
fly  with  fatal  precision  on  any  given  spot  of 
her  black-and-white  area.  It  was  only  a 
little  while  until  we  were  really  proud  to 
have  her  in  the  landscape,  and  the  picture 
she  made  grazing  against  the  green  or 
standing  in  the  apple  shade  was  really 
gratifying.  When  the  trees  were  pink  and 
white  with  bloom  and  Mis'  Cow  rested 
under  them,  chewing  in  time  to  her  long 
reflections,  we  often  called  one  another  out 
to  admire  the  pastoral  scene.  A  visiting 
friend  of  Scotch  ancestry  was  moved  to 
exclaim,  "Ah,  the  bonny  cow!" 

Then  there  was  the  matter  of  milk — she 
certainly  justified  Westbury's  reputation 
in  that  respect.  From  a  quart  or  two  of 
thin,  pale  unusable  fluid  her  daily  dividend 
grew  into  gallons  of  foaming  richness  that 
became  pitchers  of  cream  and  pounds  of 
butter;  for  Elizabeth,  like  myself,  had 
known  farming  in  an  earlier  day,  and  rows 
of  milk-pans  and  a  churn  went  with  her 

15  203 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


idea  of  the  simple  life.  All  day  Mis*  Cow 
munched  the  new  grass,  and  night  and 
morning  yielded  a  brimming  pail.  She  was 
a  noble  worker,  I  will  say  that. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  Mis*  Cow — 
a  side  which  Westbury  forgot  to  mention. 
Mis'  Cow  was  an  acrobat.  When  she  had 
been  on  bran  mash  and  clover  for  a  few 
weeks  she  showed  a  decided  tendency  to  be 
gay — to  caper  and  kick  up  her  heels — to 
break  away  into  the  woods  or  down  the 
road,  if  one  was  not  watching.  But  this 
was  not  all — this  was  mere  ordinary  cow 
nature,  which  is  more  foolish  and  contrary 
than  any  other  kind  of  nature  except  that 
which  goes  with  a  human  being  or  a  hen. 
I  was  not  surprised  at  these  things — they 
were  only  a  sign  that  she  was  getting  toler 
ably  restored,  according  to  specifications. 
But  when  one  day  I  saw  her  going  down  the 
road,  soon  after  I  had  turned  her  into  the 
pasture  and  carefully  put  up  the  bars,  I 
realized  that  she  had  special  gifts.  Stone 
walls  did  not  a  prison  make — not  for  her. 
Elizabeth  and  I  rounded  her  up  and  got 
her  back  into  the  pasture,  and  from  con- 
204 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


cealment  I  watched  her.  She  fed  peace 
fully  enough,  for  some  time,  then,  doubt 
less  believing  herself  unobserved,  she  took 
a  brief  promenade  along  the  wall  until  she 
came  to  what  looked  like  a  promising  place, 
and  simply  walked  over  it,  like  a  goat. 

We  herded  her  into  the  barn,  and  I  en 
gaged  a  man  to  put  a  string  of  wire  above 
the  wall.  That  was  effective  as  long  as  it 
was  in  repair.  But  it  was  Mis'  Cow's 
business  to  see  that  it  did  not  remain  in 
repair  permanently.  She  would  examine  it 
during  idle  moments,  pick  out  a  weak  spot  in 
the  entanglement,  and  pull  it  flat  with  her 
horns.  Or  where  the  wall  was  broad  enough 
at  the  top  she  would  climb  up  and  walk  it, 
just  for  exercise,  stepping  over  when  she  got 
ready.  If  she  could  have  been  persuaded 
to  do  those  things  to  order  I  could  have  sold 
her  to  a  circus.  It  was  necessary  to  rein 
force  the  wire  and  add  another  string. 

Even  that  was  not  always  a  cure.  I  came 
home  from  the  city  one  night,  after  a  hard 
day.  Elizabeth  and  the  Joy,  with  Old 
Beek,  had  met  me  at  the  station,  and  as  we 
drove  up  the  hill  in  the  dim  evening  I  said 
205 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


how  glad  I  was  to  get  home,  and  that 
Elizabeth  had  milked,  so  that  I  could  drop 
into  a  chair  and  eat  my  supper  and  rest, 
the  minute  I  entered  the  house.  We  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill  just  then,  and  a  dim  gray 
shadow  met  and  passed  us  in  the  velvet 
dusk.  It  was  Mis'  Cow,  starting  out  to  spend 
the  night.  She  was  moving  with  a  long, 
swinging  trot,  and  in  another  second  I  was 
out  and  after  her. 

She  had  several  rods'  start  and  could  run 
downhill  better  than  I  could,  especially  in 
the  dark.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every  step 
I  went  plunging  out  into  space.  My  empty 
stomach  became  demoralized,  the  blood 
rushed  to  my  head.  "Gosh  dern  a  cow,  any 
way!"  By  the  time  we  had  reached  West- 
bury's  and  started  up  the  next  hill  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  sell  her — to  give  her 
away — to  drive  her  off  the  premises.  Some 
people  were  standing  in  front  of  the  next 
house  and  they  laughed  as  we  went  by,  we 
being  about  neck  and  neck  at  the  time. 
Westbury  was  in  that  crowd,  and  for  the 
moment  our  friendship  was  in  grave  danger. 
But  then  we  came  to  the  house  of  the  man 
206 


o    S 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


who  had  made  a  failure  of  book  chicken- 
farming,  and  she  darted  in.  She  had  re 
membered  it  as  her  home  and  wanted  to 
return  to  it.  Imagine  wanting  to  go  back 
to  such  a  home! 

Westbury  came,  and  we  got  a  rope  on 
her  and  led  her  uphill.  I  suppose  I  felt 
better  in  the  morning,  and  it  was  about 
this  time  that  William  arrived  on  the 
scene.  William  loved  Mis'  Cow  and  did 
not  mind  chasing  her  up  and  down  the  road 
and  through  the  bushes,  though  sometimes 
duiing  the  summer,  when  he  had  had  a  hard 
day  with  her,  and  our  windows  were  open, 
we  could  hear  him  still  hi-hi-ing  and  whoop 
ing  in  his  sleep,  chasing  Mis'  Cow  through 
the  woods  of  dream. 


IV 


Strawberries  and  trout.     How  is  that  for  a 
combination  ? 

I  remember  that  as  a  golden  summer, 
an  enthusiastic  summer,  and,  on  the  whole, 
a  successful  one.     Our  early  garden  grew — 
207 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


also  the  second  planting  and  the  third. 
William  Deegan  made  it  his  business  to  see 
that  they  did.  I  realized  presently  that  my 
special  forte  lay  in  directing  a  sizable  gar 
den  like  that  rather  than  in  performing  the 
actual  labor,  especially  when  June  arrived 
and  the  sun  began  to  approach  the  per 
pendicular  and  take  on  callithump.  You 
probably  don't  know  what  callithump  is,  but 
you  will  find  out  if  you  undertake  to  hoe  sod- 
ground  potatoes  in  July.  It  has  something 
to  do  with  brazen  trumpets  and  violence. 

I  became  acquainted  with  callithump 
when  I  straightened  out  the  asparagus-bed. 
The  weeds  had  got  a  master  start  there, 
and  the  feeble  feathery  asparagus  shoots 
were  quite  overtopped  and  lost.  I  said  the 
job  required  a  microscopic  eye  and  a  delicate 
hand.  I  would  set  the  asparagus-bed  in 
order  myself. 

It  is  surprising  how  much  ground  a  hun 
dred  asparagus  roots  can  cover.  Elizabeth 
had  superintended  their  planting,  during  a 
period  when  I  had  been  absent,  and,  re 
membering  my  mania  for  having  things  far 
apart,  she  had  let  herself  go  in  the  matter 
208 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


of  space.  She  had  made  it  rich,  too,  and 
the  weeds  just  loved  it.  Some  of  them 
were  up  to  my  waist.  I  said  they  would 
have  to  be  pulled  by  hand  and  I  would  get 
up  in  the  cool  of  the  morning  and  do  it. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  beat  the  sun  up 
in  June.  I  was  out  there  at  five  o'clock,  but 
the  sun  was  already  busy  and  had  got  the 
range.  By  the  time  I  had  pulled  half-way 
down  one  row  I  could  feel  the  callithump 
working.  Also  something  else.  We  claimed 
to  have  no  mosquitoes  in  Brook  Ridge,  so  it 
could  not  have  been  those.  Whatever  it 
was  kept  me  swearing  steadily,  and  pawing 
and  slapping  and  sweating  blood.  When 
I  had  finished  a  row  I  crept  in,  got  some 
fresh  clothes  and  a  towel,  and  made  a  dash 
for  the  brook.  I  had  cleaned  out  a  special 
pool  behind  the  ice-house,  and  built  a  little 
dressing-platform.  In  less  than  a  minute 
I  was  in  the  water,  looking  up  at  the  sky 
and  hearing  the  birds  sing.  Talk  about 
luxury!  After  breakfast  I  took  Elizabeth 
out  to  show  her  my  progress. 

"It  looks  nice,"  she  said,  "and  how  easily 
you  did  it !" 

209 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


It  took  me  four  memorable  mornings  to 
finish  the  asparagus-bed,  and,  proud  as  I 
was  of  the  job,  I  resigned,  after  that,  in 
favor  of  William.  The  brazen  trumpets  of 
the  sky  even  at  high  noon  could  not  phase 
W.  Deegan.  Often  in  July  I  have  sat  in 
the  maple  shade,  with  pride  watching  him 
carry  out  my  directions  concerning  weeds 
and  potato-bugs.  I  admired  and  honored 
William.  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for 
honorable  toil,  but  even  more  for  callithump. 

Sometimes  in  the  early  morning  I  went 
trout-fishing.  There  is  more  fascination 
and  less  waste  tissue  in  that.  I  would 
creep  down  while  the  house  was  still  and 
get  my  rod  and  basket,  and  take  a  sheltered 
lane  that  was  like  a  green  tunnel  through  the 
woods,  where  the  birds  were  just  tuning  up 
for  a  concert,  then  out  across  the  "bean- 
lot/'  to  strike  the  brook  at  about  the  head 
of  navigation — for  trout. 

They  were  plenty  enough  and  just  of  the 
right  size — that  is  to  say,  eight  to  eleven 
inches  long — and  easy  enough  to  get  if  one 
was  very  careful.  You  could  not  cast  for 
them;  the  brook  was  too  small  and  brushy 

210 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


for  that.  You  had  to  use  a  very  short  line, 
and  wind  it  around  the  end  of  the  rod,  and 
work  it  through  the  branches,  and  then 
carefully,  very  carefully,  unwind  and  let 
the  hook  drop  lightly  on  the  water.  Then 
as  likely  as  not  there  would  be  a  swift, 
tingling  tug,  and,  if  you  were  lucky,  an 
instant  later  you  would  have  a  beautiful 
red-speckled  fellow  landed  among  the  grass 
and  field  flowers,  his  gay  colors  glancing  in 
the  sun. 

The  open  places  also  required  maneuver 
ing.  One  does  not  walk  up  to  the  bank  and 
fish  for  wild  trout — not  in  a  stream  that  is 
as  clear  as  glass  and  where  every  fish  in  it 
can  see  the  slightest  movement  on  the  bank. 
To  fish  such  a  place  is  to  lie  flat  on  the 
stomach  and  work  forward  inch  by  inch 
through  the  grass,  Indian  fashion,  until  the 
water  is  in  reach.  Even  then  you  must 
not  look,  but  feel,  unwinding  the  line 
slowly,  slowly,  until  the  fly  or  worm  taps 
the  water.  Then  if  you  have  done  it  well 
and  the  trout  is  there,  and  it  is  June,  there 
will  be  results — sharp,  quick,  sudden  re 
sults  that  insure  the  best  breakfast  in  the' 

211 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


world — hot  fried  trout,  fresh  from  a  New 
England  brook. 

The  Joy  went  with  me  on  some  of  these 
excursions.  She  liked  to  have  me  call  her 
early  and  go  tiptoing  and  whispering  about 
our  preparations  and  to  wade  off  through 
the  dewy  grass  in  her  rubber  boots,  leav 
ing  the  rest  of  the  house  asleep.  She  gener 
ally  carried  the  basket,  and  was  deeply  in 
terested  in  my  maneuvers  when  the  cry  of 
the  "  teacher  "-bird  and  the  call  of  the 
wood-thrush  did  not  distract  her  attention. 
I  can  still  see  the  grass  up  to  her  fat  little 
waist,  her  comical  blue  apron,  her  dimpled 
round  face  and  the  sunlight  on  her  hair.  She 
had  a  deep  pity  for  the  trout,  but  her  sport 
ing  instinct  was  deeper  still.  Sometimes 
when  there  was  a  slip,  and  a  big  shining 
fellow  would  go  bouncing  and  splashing 
back  into  the  brook,  she  would  jump  up 
and  down  and  demand,  excitedly: 

"Why  didn't  you  catch  that  one,  Daddy? 
Why  didn't  you  catch  him?  That  was  a 
big,  big,  big  one!"  And  she  walked  very 
proudly  when  we  had  six  or  more  to  carry 
'back  for  breakfast. 

212 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Strawberries  and  trout — how  is  that  for 
a  breakfast  combination  in  June?  Trout 
just  from  the  water  and  strawberries  fresh 
from  the  garden.  We  had  planted  a  good 
patch  of  strawberries  the  August  of  our 
arrival  and  they  had  done  wonderfully  well 
for  the  first  year.  Often  by  the  time  we 
had  come  from  fishing  Elizabeth  had  been 
out  and  filled  a  bowl,  and  sometimes  even 
made  a  short-cake,  for  we  were  old-fashioned 
enough  to  love  short-cake — old-fashioned 
short-cake  made  with  biscuit  dough  (not 
the  sweet-cake  kind)  for  breakfast.  And 
breakfast  with  trout  and  short-cake — short 
cake  with  cream,  mind  you! — in  New  Eng 
land  in  June,  when  the  windows  open  on 
the  grass  and  the  wood- thrushes  are  calling, 
is  just  about  as  near  paradise  as  you  can 
get  in  this  old  world. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


Fate  produced  a  man  who  had  chickens  to  sell 

ITH  June  the 
Pride  and  the 
Hope  came  home 
from  school.  The 
brook,  the  barn, 
J  Old  Beek,  and 
nMis1  Cow  all 
ft  had  their  uses 
then — also  a  tent 
"'  in  the  yard,  a  swing, 
SSffe:  hammock,  and  what  not. 
When  God  made  the 
country  He  made  it  es 
pecially  for  children.  Burning  suns,  a  weedy 
garden  and  potato  blight  may  dismay  the 
old,  but  such  things  do  not  fret  the  young 
mind.  As  long  as  the  brook  is  cool  and  the 
fields  are  sweet  and  there  is  fresh  milk  and 
214 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


succotash  on  the  table,  happy  childhood  is 
indifferent  to  care. 

We  were  given  to  picnics.  Often  we 
packed  some  food  things  into  a  basket  and 
went  into  the  woods  and  spread  them  in  a 
shady  place.  Lena,  the  Finn,  sometimes 
accompanied  these  excursions  and  went 
quite  mad  with  the  delight  of  them,  racing 
about  and  digging  ^  kup  flowers  and 
shrubs  to  plant  in  A  ^f^  the  door-yard, 

-      .      -  I)  Jm'i/^--^  1  •          •.. 

fairly  *•    ftMfeJ  whooping  it 


up  in  joy- 

and 

lish 


f  ul  Finnish 

such  Eng- 

words  as 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


she  had  acquired.     I  believe  the  aspect  of 
our  woods  reminded  her  of  Finland. 

Lena  was  a  good  soul,  that  is  certain,  and 
measurably  instructive.  We  learned  from 
her  how  priceless  is  the  gift  of  good  nature, 
which  was  the  chief  thing  that  kept  her 
with  us;  also,  to  eat  a  number  of  dishes 
quite  new  to  us,  and  that  an  apple-tree— 
or  perhaps  it  was  an  apple,  baked  or  in 
dumpling — was,  in  her  speech,  an  "ominy 
poo."  She  was  not  strong  on  desserts,  but 
she  could  always  fall  back  on  the  ominy 
poo — meaning  in  a  general  way  the  big 
sweet-apple  tree  that  grew  by  the  barn  and 
was  loaded  to  the  breaking-point  with  deli 
cious  fruit.  Any  baked  apple  is  good,  but 
a  big,  cold,  baked  sweet-apple — "punkin 
sweets,"  Westbury  called  them — with  cold 
cream,  plenty  of  it,  and  a  sprinkle  of  sugar, 
is  about  the  most  blithesome  thing  in  the 
world.  Hurrah  for  the  ominy  poo !  whether 
it  be  the  tree,  or  the  fruit,  baked  or  in 
dumplings.  When  the  strawberry  passed 
and  was  not,  the  ominy  poo  reigned 
gloriously.  I  don't  know  what  Lena  called 
certain  other  dishes  that  from  time  to  time 
216 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


she  tried  to  substitute — some  other  kind  of 
poo,  maybe — 1  know  we  gradually  per 
suaded  her  away  from  them  into  a  better 
way  of  life. 

Sometimes  we  joined  our  picnics  with  the 
Westburys' — loaded  our  baskets  into  a 
little  hand-express  wagon,  or  into  the  sur 
rey  behind  Lord  Beaconsfield — and  these 
were  quite  elaborate  affairs  that  required  a 
good  deal  of  preparation  and  meant  a 
general  holiday.  More  than  once  we  spread 
long  tables  on  the  green  of  Westbury's 
shaded  lawn  that  sloped  down  to  the  river 
and  the  mill,  and  was  a  picture-place,  if 
ever  there  was  one.  Other  days  we  went 
over  the  hills  for  huckleberries — and  came 
home  with  pails  of  the  best  fruit  that  grows 
for  pies,  bar  none.  Happy  days — days  of 
peace — a  true  golden  age,  as  it  seems  now. 
Will  the  world,  I  wonder,  ever  be  so  happy 
and  golden  again? 

We  had  no  intention  of  embarking  in 
chickens  when  we  settled  in  Brook  Ridge. 
Neither  of  us  had  any  love  for  chickens  on 
foot,  and  we  had  no  illusions  about  the 

16  217 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


fortunes  that,  according  to  certain  books, 
could  be  made  from  a  setting  of  eggs  and  a 
tin  hen — an  incubator,  I  mean.  Also,  our 
experiment  with  pigs  had  cooled  us  in  the 
matter  of  live  stock  for  profit. 

Still,  we  did  love  chickens  in  their  proper 
place — that  is  to  say,  with  dumplings  or 
dressing  and  some  of  the  nice  jellies  and 
things  which  Elizabeth  had  made  during 
those  autumn  months  of  our  arrival.  It 
seemed  extravagant  to  have  them  often; 
chickens  had  become  chickens  since  our 
long-ago  early  acquaintance  with  them, 
when  "two  bits"  had  been  a  fancy  price  for 
broilers  and  old  hens.  Elizabeth  finally 
conceded  that  perhaps  a  few  chickens — a 
very  few,  kept  in  a  neat  inclosure  away 
from  the  garden — might  be  desirable.  It 
would  be  so  handy  to  have  one  when  we 
wanted  it.  She  even  hinted  that  the  sound 
of  a  satisfied  and  reflective  hen  singing 
about  the  barn  would  add  a  rural  note  to 
our  pastoral  harmony.  Then,  of  course, 
there  would  be  the  eggs. 

Fate  produced  a  man,  just  at  that  mo 
ment,  who  had  chickens  to  sell.  He  had 
218 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


been  called  away,  and  would  let  his  flock  go 
cheap — he  had  about  a  dozen,  he  thought, 
assorted  as  to  age  and  condition.  We  could 
have  them  for  fifty  cents  each.  It  seemed 
an  opportunity.  William  Deegan  was  in 
structed  to  prepare  the  neat  inclosure,  which 
he  did  with  enthusiasm,  William  being 
enamoured  of  anything  that  was  alive. 

The  man  who  had  been  called  away  had 
made  a  poor  count  of  his  flock.  He  arrived 
with  nearly  twice  as  many  as  he  said,  but 
we  were  in  the  mood  by  that  time,  and  took 
over  the  bunch.  They  were  not  a  very 
inspiring  lot.  They  were  of  no  special 
breed,  but  just  chickens — a  long-legged, 
roostery  set,  with  a  mixture  of  frazzled 
hens  of  years  and  experience.  We  said, 
however,  that  food  and  care  would  improve 
them.  Remember  what  it  had  done  for 
Mis'  Cow. 

"Ye'll  be  after  eatin'  thim  roosters, 
prisently,"  William  commented,  as  we 
looked  at  them  through  the  inclosing  wire, 
"  before  they  be  gettin'  much  older.  Ye'll 
be  want  in'  eggs  from  the  hins." 

William's  remark  seemed  wise.    We  were 

2IQ 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


wanting  the  eggs,  all  right,  and  those  ten 
or  twelve  speedy-looking  roosters  ought  to 
go  to  the  platter  without  much  delay.  We 
would  feed  liberally  and  begin  on  the  best 
ones,  forthwith. 

Still,  we  did  not  have  chicken  that  day, 
nor  the  next.  There  is  nothing  so  perverse 
as  the  human  appetite.  Those  were  not 
really  bad  chickens,  and  in  a  few  days  they 
were  much  better.  If  any  one  of  those 
middle-aged  roosters  had  been  brought  to 
us  by  the  butcher  we  would  have  paid  the 
usual  dollar  for  it,  and,  baked  and  browned 
and  served  with  fixings,  it  would  have  gone 
well  enough,  even  though  a  trifle  muscular 
and  somewhat  resilient. 

But  somehow  this  was  a  different  propo 
sition.  I  don't  believe  I  can  explain  just 
why.  There  was  something  about  the  ag 
gregation  as  a  whole  that  was  discourag 
ing.  I  suspect  William's  remark  that  they 
must  be  eaten  "prisently"  had  something 
to  do  with  it.  Eating  those  chickens  was 
not  to  be  an  entertainment,  a  pastime,  but 
a  job — a  job  that  increased,  for  the  "old 
hins"  did  not  lay,  or  very  sparingly — an 
220 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


egg  a  day  being  about  the  average.  William 
brought  it  in  solemnly.  We  had  got  to 
devour  that  entire  -flock  of  chickens,  and 
the  thought  became  daily  less  attractive. 
Even  our  tribe  of  precious  ones,  who  had 
always  been  chicken  -  hungry  before,  sud 
denly  became  indifferent  to  the  idea  of 
chicken  fried,  baked,  or  in  fricassee.  I  said, 
at  last,  we  would  have  to  have  a  series  of 
picnics.  Anything  would  taste  good  at  a 
picnic. 

I  don't  remember  how  many  we  used  up 
in  that  way,  but  I  know  the  business  of 
getting  rid  of  those  chickens  seemed  in 
terminable.  We  tried  working  them  off 
on  William  and  Lena,  but  even  they  balked 
before  the  end  was  reached.  I  have  heard 
it  stated  that  no  one  can  eat  thirty  quails 
in  thirty  days.  I  don't  know  about  that, 
but  I  know  that  when  we  tried  to  put  over 
a  dozen  chickens  on  Lena  and  William  in 
six  weeks  it  was  a  failure.  At  last  we 
were  reduced  to  one  old  hen,  who  by  general 
consent  was  made  immune.  Also  free. 
The  garden  was  too  far  advanced  for  her 
to  damage  it.  The  door  of  the  neat  wire 

221 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


inclosure  was  left  open  for  her  to  go  and 
come  at  will.  There  was  danger  of  foxes 
at  night,  but  we  did  not  shut  it.  The  foxes, 
however,  did  not  come.  Even  foxes  have 
to  draw  the  line  somewhere.  That  vener 
able  old  lady  wandered  about  the  place, 
pecking  and  contentedly  singing,  and  in  that 
part  we  really  became  fond  of  her.  I  think 
she  died  at  last  of  old  age. 

ii 

/  planted  some  canterbury-bells 

I  believe  our  agriculture  may  be  said 
to  have  been  successful.  William  was  a 
faithful  gardener.  His  corn,  beans,  pease, 
and  potatoes  were  abundant,  and  all  the 
other  good  things,  whether  to  eat  boiled, 
raw,  or  roasted.  Our  table  was  almost 
embarrassed  by  these  riches,  which  perhaps 
helped  us  to  weaken  on  the  chicken  idea. 

I  think  our  favorite  staple  was  corn — 
green  sweet  corn,  carried  directly  from  the 
patch  to  the  pot,  and  from  the  pot  to  the 
table.  If  you  have  not  eaten  it  under  these 

222 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


conditions  you  have  never  really  known 
wLat  green  corn  should  be  like.  The  flavor 
of  corn  begins  to  go  the  moment  it  is  pulled 
from  the  stalk,  also  the  moment  it  leaves 
the  pot.  Cooked  instanter,  buttered,  with 
salt  and  pepper,  eaten  the  moment  it  does 
not  blister  your  mouth,  it  is  the  pride  of 
the  garden.  Cooked  the  next  day  and  eaten 
when  it  has  become  cool  and  flabby,  it 
becomes  a  reproach.  It  is  different  with 
beans.  Beans  keep,  and,  hot  or  cold  or 
warmed  over,  they  are  never  to  be  despised. 
The  heaping  platters  of  corn  and  the  bowls 
of  beans  that  our  family  could  destroy  after 
a  morning  of  hearty  exercise  were  rather 
staggering.  Then  presently  the  cantaloups 
came — fragrant,  juicy  ones,  and  all  the 
salads,  and — oh,  well,  never  mind  the  list — 
I  have  heard  of  living  like  a  lord,  but  I 
can't  imagine  any  lord  ever  living  as  near 
to  the  sap  and  savor  of  life's  luxuries  as 
we  did. 

I  must  not 'overlook  our  rye.     By  June  it 

was  a  cloth  of  gold,  and  of  such  elevation 

that  I  could  barely  see  over  it.     There  is 

something    stately    and    wonderful    about 

223 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


standing  rye,  when  one  is  close  enough  to 
see  the  individual  stalks.  They  are  so  tall 
and  slim  that  you  cannot  understand  why 
the  lightest  wind  does  not  lay  them  flat. 
Yet  all  day  long  they  sway  and  ripple  and 
billow  in  the  summer  wind,  and  unless  the 
heavy,  driving  storm  comes  the  ranks  re 
main  unbroken  to  the  last  and  face  the 
sickle  in  golden  dress  parade. 

Westbury  came  with  a  force  of  men  one 
blazing  morning,  and  the  sound  of  the 
cutting-machine  was  a  music  that  carried 
me  back  to  days  when  I  had  followed  the 
reaper  in  the  Mississippi  Valley,  from  the 
first  ray  of  sunrise  to  the  last  ray  of  sunset, 
eaten  five  times  a  day,  drunk  water  out  of  a 
jug  under  the  shock,  and  once  picked  up  a 
bundle  with  a  snake  in  it  and  jumped  four 
teen  feet,  more  or  less,  straight  up  in  the 
air.  It  was  not  that  I  was  afraid,  you 
understand,  but  just  surprised.  Snakes 
nearly  always  surprise  me.  I  remember 
once  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  on  the  way  to 
visit  a  friend  about  my  size,  I  took  a  short 
cut  across  a  little  clearing,  and  was  hopping 
and  singing  along  when  I  hopped  onto  some- 
224 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


thing  firm  that  moved  twistingly  under  my 
bare  foot.  I  did  not  jump  or  run  that 
time;  I  merely  opened  out  my  wings  and 
flew.  Corn-rows,  brush-piles,  fences,  were 
as  nothing.  I  sailed  over  them  like  a  gnat 
till  I  reached  the  big  main  road.  I  was 
not  interested  in  short  cuts,  after  that,  and 
I  didn't  cross  that  field  again  for  years.  I 
was  not  afraid,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  be 
surprised  again.  I  recall  another  time- 
But  this  is  not  a  snake  story.  I  told  West- 
bury  that  I  could  bind  as  well  as  ever,  and 
would  give  them  an  exhibition  of  a  few 
rounds.  But  it  was  impressively  hot  and 
at  about  the  third  bundle  I  remembered  an 
important  memorandum  I  wanted  to  make, 
and  excused  myself.  It  was  quite  pleasant 
in  my  study,  and  I  kept  on  making  memo 
randums  until  by  and  by  Westbury  sent  the 
Hope  to  tell  me  that  they'd  like  me  to  come 
out  and  give  the  rest  of  the  exhibition.  It 
was  not  very  considerate  of  Westbury  when 
I  was  busy  that  way,  and  I  ignored  his 
suggestion. 

We  did  not  go  in  for  selling  seed  rye,  as 
I  had  once  contemplated,  but  I  think  we 
225 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


might  have  done  so  if  there  had  been  a 
demand.  Westbury  and  the  men  put  it 
into  the  barn,  and  later  flailed  it  out  on  the 
barn  floor,  after  the  manner  of  Abraham 
and  Boaz  and  Bildad  the  Shuhite,  beating 
the  flails  in  time  and  singing  a  song  that 
Bildad  himself  composed.  Who  would  have 
a  dusty,  roaring  thrashing-machine  when 
one  can  listen  to  the  beating  flails  and  be 
back  with  Boaz  and  Bildad  in  the  days 
when  the  world  was  new? 

Just  a  word  more  of  our  vegetable  ex 
periments.  For  one  thing,  our  asparagus- 
bed  thrived.  Those  hot  mornings  I  put  in 
paid  the  biggest  return  of  any  early-morning 
investment  I  ever  made.  Each  year  it 
came  better  and  better — in  May  and  June 
we  could  not  keep  up  with  it  and  shared 
it  with  our  neighbors.  The  farm-dweller 
who  does  not  plant  an  asparagus-bed  as 
quickly  as  he  can  get  the  ground  ready,  and 
the  plants  for  it,  makes  a  grave  mistake. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  record  here  that  our 
sweet-potatoes  were  a  success.  We  were 
told  that  they  would  not  grow  in  New 
226 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


England,  but  they  grew  for  us  and  were 
sweet  and  plentiful. 

The  waning  of  the  year  in  a  garden  is 
almost  the  best  of  it,  I  think.  Spring  with 
its  thrill  of  promise,  summer  with  its  fulfil 
ment — meager  or  abundant,  according  to 
the  season — are  over.  Then  comes  Septem 
ber  and  October,  the  season  of  cool,  even 
brisk,  mornings  and  mellow  afternoons. 
It  is  remnant-day  in  the  garden,  the  time 
to  take  a  basket  and  go  bargain-hunting  on 
the  "as  is"  counter.  Where  the  carrots 
have  been  gathered  there  are  always  a  few 
tq  be  found,  if  one  looks  carefully,  and  in 
the  melon-patch  there  is  sure  to  be  one  or 
two  that  still  hold  the  bouquet  of  summer, 
with  something  added  that  has  come  with 
the  first  spicy  mornings  of  fall.  Also,  if  one 
is  lucky,  he  will  find  along  the  yellowing 
rows^  fev^krs  of  corn,  tender  enough  and 
swee? enot^n  f or  the  table,  with  not  quite 
the  flavor  of  July,  perhaps,  but  with  some 
thing  that  appeals  as  much  to  the  imagina 
tion,  that  belongs  with  the  spectral  sun 
light,  the  fading  stalks  and  vines,  and 
carries  the  memory  back  to  that  first  day 
227 


Dwellers  in  Arcade 


of  April  planting.  To  bring  in  a  basket, 
however  scanty,  of  those  odds  and  ends 
and  range  them  side  by  side  on  the  kitchen 
table  affords  a  gratification  that  is  not 
entirely  material,  I  believe,  for  there  is  a 
sort  of  pensive  sadness  in  it  that  I  have  been 
told  is  related  to  poetry. 

I  have  said  little  of  our  flowers,  but  they 
were  a  large  part — sometimes  I  think  the 
largest  part — of  our  happiness.  Going  back 
through  the  summers  now,  I  cannot  quite 
separate  those  of  that  first  year  from  those 
of  the  summers  that  followed.  It  does  not 
matter;  sooner  or  later  we  had  all  the  old- 
fashioned  things :  hollyhocks  in  clusters  and 
corners,  and  on  the  high  ground  in  a  long 
row  against  the  sky;  poppies  and  bleeding- 
heart,  columbine  and  foxglove,  bunches  of 
crimson  bee-balm  and  rows  o^fel  detohin- 
ium  in  marvelous  shades  of  blu^  And  we 
had  banks  of  calliopsis  and  sunflowers — the 
small  sunflowers  of  Kansas,  that  bloom  a 
hundred  or  more  to  a  stalk — and  tall  phlox 
whose  fragrance  carries  one  back  to  some 
far,  forgotten  childhood.  Then  there  were 
228 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


the  roses — the  tea-roses  that  one  must  be 
careful  of  in  winter  and  the  hardy  climbers 

—the  Dorothy  Perkins  and  ramblers  clam 
bering  over  the  walls.  As  I  look  back  now 
through  the  summers  I  seem  to  see  a  tangle 
of  color  stretching  across  the  years.  It  is 
our  garden — our  flowers — always  a  riot  of 
disorder,  always  a  care  and  a  trial,  always 
beloved  and  glorious. 

One  year  I  planted  some  canterbury-bells 

—the  blue  and  the  white.  They  are  bien 
nials,  and  bloom  the  second  year.  The  blue 
ones  came  wonderfully,  but  the  white  ones 
apparently  failed.  I  did  not  plant  them 
again,  for  I  went  in  mainly  for  perennials 
that,  once  established,  come  year  after  year. 
I  tried  myosotis,  too,  but  that  also  disap 
peared  after  the  second  year.  Our  garden, 
such  as  it  was,  was  a  hardy  garden,  where 
only  the  fittest  survived. 

There  was  an  accompaniment  to  our  gar 
den.  It  was  the  brook.  Nearly  always,  as 
I  dug  and  planted,  I  could  hear  its  voice. 
Sometimes  it  rose  strong  and  insistent — in 
spring,  when  rains  were  plenty;  sometimes 
in  August^  when  the  sky  for  weeks  had 
229 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


been  hard  and  dry,  it  sank  to  a  low  mur 
mur,  but  it  was  seldom  silent.  All  the  year 
through  its  voice  was  a  lilting  undertone, 
and  the  seasons  ran  away  to  the  thread  of 
its  silver  song. 

After  all,  a  garden  in  any  season  is  what 
ever  it  seems  to  its  owner.  To  one  who 
plans  and  plants  it,  tends  and  loves  it,  any 
garden  is  a  world  in  little,  a  small  realm  of 
sentient  personalities,  of  quaint  and  lovely 
associations,  of  anxious  strivings  and  con 
cerns,  of  battles,  of  triumphs,  and  of  de 
feats.  To  one  who  makes  a  garden  under 
compulsion  it  is  merely  an  inclosure  of  dirt 
and  persistent  weeds,  a  place  of  sun  and 
sweat  and  some  more  or  less  perverse  and 
reluctant  vegetables  that  would  be  much 
more  pleasantly  obtained  from  the  market- 
wagon.  There  is  no  personality  in  it  to 
him,  nor  any  poetry.  I  know  this,  because 
I  was  once  that  kind  of  a  gardener  myself. 
It  was  when  I  was  a  boy  and  had  to  hoe 
one  every  Saturday  forenoon,  when  there 
were  a  number  of  other  things  I  wanted  to 
do.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  study 
lovingly  the  miracle  of  the  garden  when  duty 
230 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


was  calling  me  to  play  short-stop  on  the 
baseball  nine  that  I  knew  was  assembling 
on  the  common,  with  some  irresponsible 
one-gallus  substitute  in  my  place.  Yet 
even  in  those  days  I  loved  the  fall  garden. 
The  hoeing  was  all  done  then,  the  weeds 
were  no  longer  my  enemies.  One  could 
dig  around  among  them  and  find  a  belated 
melon,  and  in  the  mellow  sunlight,  between 
faded  corn-rows,  scoop  out  its  golden  or  ruby 
heart  and  reflect  on  many  things. 

in 

And  how  the  family  did  grow  up! 

As  I  look  back  now,  that  first  year  on 
our  abandoned  farm  seems  a  good  deal 
like  the  years  that  followed  it;  but  it  could 
not  have  been  so,  for  when  I  consider  to-day's 
aspect  and  circumstance  I  realize  that  each 
of  our  twelve  years  of  ownership  furnished 
events  that  were  to  us  unusual,  some  of 
them,  at  the  time,  even  startling. 

We  must  have  enjoyed  a  kind  of  pros 
perity,  I  suppose,  for  we  seem  always  to 
231 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


have  been  planning  or  doing  something  to 
enlarge  the  house  or  improve  its  surround 
ings,  and  quite  a  good  deal  of  money  can  be 
spent  in  that  way.  I  think  it  was  about 
the  second  year  that  for  the  sake  of  light 
and  air  we  let  out  three  dormer  windows  on 
the  long  roof,  and  I  remember  that  in  order 
not  to  make  a  mistake  in  their  architecture 
we  drove  thirty  miles  one  morning  to  see 
a  house  like  ours  which  had  owned  its  win 
dows  from  the  beginning.  We  loved  our 
old  house,  you  see,  and  did  not  wish  to  do 
it  an  injury.  I  think  it  was  about  the 
same  time  that  we  pulled  off  the  plaster 
from  the  living-room  ceiling  and  left  the 
exposed  beams — old  hewn  timbers  which 
we  tinted  down  with  a  dull  stain.  William 
Deegan  and  I  stained  those  beams  together, 
and  our  friendship  ripened  during  that  em 
ployment.  William  had  been  with  us  about 
a  year  at  this  period — not  steadily,  because 
now  and  then  would  come  a  day  when  with 
sadness  and  averted  eyes  he  would  say,  "I 
think  I'll  be  goin'  now,  for  a  little  while," 
after  which  the  effacement  of  William  for 
perhaps  a  week,  followed  by  his  return 
232 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


some  morning,  pale,  dilapidated,  as  on  the 
morning  of  his  first  arrival. 

In  the  beginning  I  had  argued,  even 
remonstrated,  but  without  effect.  William 
only  said,  humbly:  "It  comes  over  me  to 
be  goin',  and  I  have  to  do  it.  I'll  be  dacent 
ag'in,  whin  I  get  back." 

During  one  such  period  of  absence  there 
came  a  telephone  call  from  the  sheriff  of  the 
nearest  town  of  size. 

"Do  you  know  a  man  named  William 
Deegan?" 

"We  do." 

"He  is  in  the  calaboose  here.  His  fine 
and  costs  amount  to  five  dollars.  Do  you 
want  to  redeem  him?" 

"We  do." 

Clearly  William's  vacation  had  been  un 
usual,  even  for  him.  We  sent  up  the  money 
and  William  was  home  that  night,  more 
crushed,  more  pale,  more  dilapidated  than 
ever.  He  had  worn  a  new  suit  away.  He 
returned  with  a  mere  rag.  We  thought 
this  might  cure  him,  but  nothing  could  do 
that.  We  could  redeem  William,  but  he 
could  not  redeem  himself.  These  occa- 

17  233 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


sional  lapses  were  the  only  drawback  of 
that  faithful,  industrious  soul,  and  we  let 
them  go.  We  had  been  unable  to  forgive 
them  in  the  light-headed,  literary  Gibbs. 

But  William  here  is  a  digression;  I  was 
speaking  of  our  improvements.  We  decided 
one  year  that  we  must  have  more  flowers — 
a  real  garden.  We  made  it  on  the  side  of 
the  house  where  before  had  been  open  field 
—walled  in  a  space  where  there  was  an 
apple-tree,  a  place  large  enough  to  assem 
ble  all  the  things  we  loved  most  'and  that 
grew  with  an  economy  of  care.  In  a  little 
while  it  was  a  glorious  tangle  that  we  ad 
mired  exceedingly,  and  that  our  artist 
friends  tried  to  paint. 

Another  year  we  converted  my  study 
behind  the  chimney  into  a  pantry,  opened 
it  into  the  kitchen,  made  the  "best  room" 
into  a  dining-room,  and  left  the  long  living- 
room  with  the  big  fireplace  for  library  use 
only.  That  was  a  radical  change  and  I 
had  to  build  me  a  study  over  on  a  cedar 
slope — a  good  deal  of  a  house,  in  fact,  where 
I  could  gather  my  traps  about  me,  for  with 
the  years  my  work  had  somehow  invited  a 
234 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


paraphernalia  of  shelves  and  files,  and  a 
variety  of  other  furniture  that  required 
room.  It  was  better  for  a  growing-up 
family,  too.  With  me  out  of  the  house, 
they  had  more  freedom  to  grow  up  in, 
which,  after  all,  was  their  human  right,  and 
the  growing-up  machinery  could  revolve  as 
noisily  as  it  pleased  without  furnishing  a 
procrastinating  author  an  added  excuse  for 
not  working.  No  author  with  a  growing- 
up  family  should  work  in  his  own  home. 
He  is  impossible  enough  under  even 
the  best  conditions. 

And  how  the  family 
did  grow  up.  Why, 
once  when  they  were 
home  from  school  I 
came  from  the  study 
one  day  to  find  a  young 
man  in  the  house — a  strange 
young  man,  from  somewhere  in 
the  school  neighborhood.  I 
couldn't  imagine  what  he  was  ! 
doing  there  until  I  was  taken  aside 
and  it  was  explained  to  me  that  he  was  there 
to  see  our  eldest,  the  Pride.  That  little 
235 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


girl,  imagine!  It  is  true  she  was  eighteen— 
I  counted  up  on  my  fingers  to  see — but  the 
Pride!  why,  only  yesterday  she  was  bare 
footed,  wading  in  the  brook.  Somehow  I 
couldn't  make  it  seem  right. 

IV 

And  then  one  eventful  day 

I  suppose  it  was  about  that  time  that 
we  acquired  a  car — it  would  be  likely  to 
be  about  that  time.  'Most  everybody  was 
getting  cars,  and  Lord  Beaconsfield,  good 
Old  Beek,  was  getting  slower  each  year  and 
could  no  longer  keep  up  even  with  our 
deliberate  progress.  Furthermore,  I  learned 
to  drive  the  car,  in  time.  It  is  true  I 
knocked  some  splinters  from  the  barn,  put  a 
crimp  in  a  mud -guard,  and  smashed  another 
man's  tail-light  in  the  process,  but  nothing 
fatal  occurred,  though  I  found  it  a  pretty 
good  plan  to  stick  fairly  close  to  my  new 
study  on  the  cedar  slope  if  I  wanted  to  keep 
up  with  the  garage  and  damage  bills. 
Those  bills  startled  me,  at  first,  and  then, 
236 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


like  everybody  else,  I  became  callous  and 
reckless,  and  we  did  without  a  good  many 
other  things  in  order  that  the  car  might 
not  go  unshod  or  climb  limpingly  the  stiff 
New  England  hills. 

And  then  at  last,  one  eventful  day — a 
day  far  back  in  that  happy,  halcyon  age 
when  ships  sailed  as  freely  across  the  ocean 
as  ferry-boats  across  the  North  River  and 
men  roved  at  will  among  the  nations   of 
the  earth— one  sunny  August  morning,  eight 
years  after  the  day  of  our  coming,  we  locked 
the  old  house  behind  us  and  drove  away  in 
the  car  to  a  New  York  pier  and  sailed  with 
it  (the  car,  I  mean,  not  the  pier)  to  the 
Mediterranean,  and  the  shores  of  France. 
In  that  fair  land,  while  the  world  was  still 
at  peace,  we  wandered  for  more  than  a  year, 
resting  where  we  chose,  as  long  as  we  chose,' 
all  the  more  unhurried  and  happy  for  not 
knowing  that  we  were  seeing  the  end  of  the 
Golden  Age.     Oh,  those  lovely  days  when 
we  went  gipsying  along  the  roads  of  Pro 
vence  and  Picardy  and  Touraine!    I  cannot 
write  of  them  now,  for  in  to-day's  shock  of 
battle  they  have  already  become  unreal  and 
237 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


dreamlike.  I  touch  them  and  the  bloom 
vanishes.  But  sometimes  when  I  do  not 
try  to  write,  and  only  lean  back  and 
close  my  eyes,  I  can  catch  again  a  little 
of  their  breath  and  sweetness;  I  can  see 
the  purpling  vineyards  and  the  poppied 
fields;  I  can  drift  once  more  with  Eliza 
beth  and  our  girls  through  the  wonderland 
of  France. 

War  came  and  brought  the  ruin  of  the 
world.  It  was  late  in  the  year  when  we  re 
turned  to  America,  and  it  was  on  a  winter 
evening  that  I  drove  our  car  back  to  its 
old  place  in  the  barn,  after  its  long  journey- 
ings  by  land  and  sea.  Our  old  house  had 
remained  faithful.  A  fire  roaring  up  the 
chimney  made  it  home. 

We  went  to  Westbury's,  however,  for  the 
holidays.  Westbury  with  the  years  had 
become  a  prosperous  contractor,  for  Brook 
Ridge  was  no  longer  an  abandoned  land, 
but  a  place  of  new  and  beautiful  homes. 
Westbury's  prosperity,  however,  had  not 
made  him  proud— not  too  proud  to  offer 
us  old-time  Christmas  hospitality  at  his 

glowing  fireside. 

238 


Jt  was  on  a  winter  evening  that  I  drove  our 

car  back  to  its  old  place  in  the  barn, 

after  its  long  journey  ings  by  land  and  sea 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


Was  it  the  spirit  of  our  garden? 

Summer  found  us  back  in  the  old  house, 
almost  as  if  we  had  not  left  it.     Almost, 
but  not  quite.      Somehow  the  world  had 
changed.     Perhaps  it  was   just  the  war- 
perhaps  it  was  because  we  were  all  older— 
our  girls  beginning  to  have  lives  of  their 
own — because  the  family  unit  was  getting 
ready  to  dissolve. 

The  dissolving  began  at  last  one  sunny 
June  day  when  the  Pride  left  us.  It  was 
the  young  man  whom  I  had  noticed  around 
the  house  a  year  or  two  before  who  took 
her  away.  She  seemed  to  prefer  to  go  with 
him  than  to  stay  with  us,  I  could  not 
exactly  make  out  why,  but  I  did  not  think 
it  best,  or  safe,  to  argue  the  question,  and 
I  drove  them  to  the  train  afterward. 

Then  the  Hope  and  the  Joy  got  the  notion 
of  spending  their  summers  in  one  of  those 
camps  that  are  so  much  the  fashion  now, 
and  at  last  there  came  a  day  that  the  Hope, 
who  such  a  little  while  ago  was  running  care- 
239 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


free  and  happy-hearted  in  the  sun,  bade  us 
good-by  and  sailed  away — sailed  back  across 
the  ocean  to  France,  an  enlisted  soldier,  to 
do  her  part  where  the  world's  bravest  were 
battling  for  the  world's  freedom. 

For  us,  indeed,  the  world  had  changed; 
we  had  little  need  any  more  for  the  old 
house  that  on  a  July  day  twelve  years 
before  we  had  found  and  made  our  home. 
It  had  seen  our  brief  generation  pass;  it 
was  ready  for  the  next.  And  when,  one 
day,  there  came  a  young  man  and  his  bride, 
just  starting  on  the  way  we  had  come,  and 
seeing  the  beauty  of  the  spot,  just  as  we 
had  seen  it,  wanted  to  own  and  enjoy  it, 
just  as  we  had  owned  and  enjoyed  it,  we 
yielded  it  to  them  gladly,  even  if  sorrow 
fully,  for  one  must  give  up  everything, 
some  time  or  other,  and  it  is  an  economy  of 
regret  to  give  to  the  right  person,  at  the 
right  time. 

And  now  just  here  I  want  to  record  a 
curious  thing.  Earlier  in  these  pages  I  have 
spoken  of  planting  one  year  some  white 
canterbury-bells  that  did  not  grow,  or  at 
least,  so  far  as  we  could  discover,  did  not 
240 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


bloom.  In  six  seasons  we  never  saw  any 
sign  of  them,  yet  on  the  day  we  were  leav 
ing  our  house,  closing  it  for  the  last  time,  I 
found  on  the  spot  where  they  had  been 
planted,  in  full  bloom,  a  stalk  of  white 
canterbury -bells !  Had  the  seed  germinated 
after  all  those  years?  Was  it  the  spirit  of 
our  garden,  sprung  up  there  to  tell  us  good- 
by?  Who  can  answer? 

Our  abandoned  farm  is  no  longer  ours. 
We,    too,    have    abandoned    it.     Only  the 


years  that  we  spent  there  remain  to  us — a 
tender  and  beautiful  memory.     Whatever 

there  was  of  shadow  or  misfortune  has  long 
241 


Dwellers  in  Arcady 


since  passed  by.  I  see  now  all  our  summers 
there  bathed  in  mellow  sunlight,  all  the 
autumns  aglow  with  red  and  gold,  all  the 
winters  clean  with  sparkling  snow,  all  the 
springs  green  with  breaking  buds  and  white 
with  bloom.  If  those  seasons  were  not 
flawless  at  the  time,  they  have  become  so, 
now  when  they  are  added  to  the  past. 

And  I  know  that  they  were  indeed  happy, 
for  they  make  my  heart  ache  remembering, 
and  it  is  happiness,  and  not  misery,  that 
makes  the  heart  ache — when  it  is  gone. 

THE  END 


